


Black Soul

by tealeyedbeing



Category: Bleach
Genre: Acrotomophilia, Age Difference, Blood Drinking, Blood and Torture, Blood and Violence, Body Modification, Cannibalism, Child Murder, Chronophilia, Consensual Violence, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Disfigurement, Dismemberment, Erotophonophilia, Explicit Language, Genocide, Human Experimentation, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder, Murder Kink, hematolagnia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 06:17:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17782151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tealeyedbeing/pseuds/tealeyedbeing
Summary: It's better late than neverAnd if I take foreverTo put you back together





	Black Soul

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ShadowThorne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowThorne/gifts).



> Warnings:  
> Callous disregard for human life (including mentions or uses of: homicide, familiaricide, cannibalism, human sacrifice, massacres, genocide & experimental cruelty).  
> Dismemberment, blood, general violence & injury, and obviously various deaths (of unnamed characters).  
> Uses, or mentions of: acrotomophilia, chronophilia, erotophonophilia, & hematolagnia.  
> Body modification/biological tinkering, disfiguration.  
> Language.
> 
> It honestly sounds a lot darker than it probably is. I somehow made it fluffy despite all those tags/warnings because I'm soft af. Either that or I'm so desensitized to dark shit so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ but I wanted to be cautious and cover all the bases and at least say they're in here. 
> 
> This is of course a gift for ShadowThorne, whose writing I equally admire and adore, & whose OTP is GrimmHichi and fics made them mine as well, so I hope you like it! 
> 
> The length kind of ran away from me, and it became a real beast, and I’m still not wholly satisfied with it, but at this point, I doubt I ever will be. So rather than continue fussing with it for months on end, when it’s been months already, here it is. Happy Valentine’s Day!
> 
> Note: this fic frequently switches between both present tense and past tense, as well as two separate points of view, and uses them accordingly. 
> 
> Title is the same named song by Shinedown, because the lyrics were too good to not call it this.

It's cold, the kind of dry freeze that leaves the lips cracked and bloodied. Grimmjow is accustomed to the metallic taste on his tongue, but the cold that seeps into his bones isn't nearly so familiar. It's not a natural temperature, not enough ice or snow or elevation to warrant such a painfully deep frost, but it's a sign that the witch was right. A cold like this is meant to ward away unsuspecting travelers, and forcibly turn back intent adventurers.

Grimmjow is neither, and he will endure any amount of pain to reach his goal.

His extremities are numb and likely frostbitten; his pace accordingly clumsy with stiff limbs and aching joints, but it's a willing trade after years of tireless searching. When he inhales, the very air hurts: stabbing into his teeth and pricking at his lungs. Every exhale fogs out heavily enough to nearly condense midair, even when weighed down through the heavy wool wrapped around his face. The ice laden scarf is likely doing more harm to his skin than protecting it at this point, but he’s close enough now not to bother with removing it and letting the wind chafe his skin instead. His goggles are hardly better, but suffice enough to allow Grimmjow to peer through the lenses and finally spy his goal.

Looming overhead, pitch dark against the blinding flurries, the mountainside offers no shelter, but gapes a jagged maw wide open to devour the desperate. It’s more shallow than it appears, as Grimmjow climbs over the shale teeth and scarcely slides down the length of his height before his boots hit level ground. Despite the sky being plenty visible, little light slants into the jagged scrape, leaving Grimmjow to pull his goggles down around his neck and squint in the unnatural dark.

Something gleams in the blackness, oily like how snake scales appear, but dry where the moisture should’ve made everything slick. When Grimmjow drops a hand to the surface, his glove doesn’t catch against either ice or worn wood. It’s polished smooth, and as Grimmjow’s eyes adjust and his hand maps the object’s shape in full, his heart beats for more than mere exertion.

It hurts to grin, blood beading from his stretched lips and teeth aching with the frost, but Grimmjow's triumph can't be inwardly contained. He fumbles for the rough woven string around his neck. The jade charm attached glitters when he removes it from his coat, catching light where none exists and throwing green sparks against the ice slick walls. The witch swore on her ancestors that it'd break any binding magic it came into contact with. For her sake, she'd best be right.

Grimmjow presses the charm lightly to his lips, smearing his blood onto it, and then drops the pendant over the shape. Bright sparks immediately snap to life as various enchantments meet and begin to break, the charm sinking like a feather through spells now seen. His blood sizzles into smoke and the charm cracks in two once it finally meets the object, and the fathomless darkness of the shallow cave slinks away- banished.

The revealed coffin is pristine, untouched by either weather or vandalism, and ebony black. Grimmjow fits his gloved fingers to the lid and flings it open. The lid isn’t tied down by hinges and flies off all at once, clattering first against the stone wall then down to the floor.

The waft of heat that emanates from its contents is almost scalding in comparison to the frigidity of everything else. Nestled in a bed of ash and still smoldering embers, a pale head of colorless hair appears to be sleeping in angelic peace, except for how Grimmjow knows there's _nothing_ holy about it. It rests on one cheek, wreathed in coils of lengthy tresses, the stump of its neck uneven and cauterized black.

While Shirosaki’s face in unmistakable, more familiar than his own reflection, facts remain that Grimmjow’s beloved is beheaded. His journey is quite far from over, and conflicting emotions continue to war within his chest.

Relief that his pains haven’t been wasteful, his loyalty rewarded because he _has_ found his lover. Frustration that it’s _only_ Shirosaki’s head, with rage on its heels towards those who dared lower Shirosaki to such a state. Satisfaction that it _is_ Shirosaki’s head, undeniably the most important piece Grimmjow could’ve found, and _first_.

Grimmjow forces it all down and bites the middle finger of his glove, pulling it off with one sharp jerk of his chin. He can scarcely feel the heat against his skin as he reaches down into the coffin, curling his bare palm to Shirosaki's wan cheek. He’s too numb to feel anything but the slight pressure, but just that is more than enough to convince Grimmjow that it’s real. He’s finally done it.

Shirosaki's nose wrinkles first, his eyelids scrunching before fluttering open and peering out. Initially, their inky depths are barren, until silver blooms in rings of iris and pupil. It takes an extra second for Shirosaki to place what’s happening and to shift his eyes upwards- to the side, from his perspective- and spy Grimmjow. His gossamer lashes blink slowly, and the corner of his mouth begins to climb.

"Your hand’s cold." Shirosaki comments in greeting, his voice raspy and airy, lacking its usual harmonious, echoing tones without a chest to resonate with. “And you look awful.”

Grimmjow snorts, retrieving his hand and stiffly re-gloving it. _Of course_ Shirosaki’s first words would be a complaint, followed by an insult. He honestly didn’t expect any different, and he’s not even surprised that Shirosaki’s still animated. The witch had implied as much when she pointed Grimmjow on where to go, too eager to be rid of him to question why her spell worked so well at finding what should’ve been dead flesh.

"How long’s it been?" Shirosaki inquires, patiently waiting to be righted.

"Fourteen years." Grimmjow grunts at last, his voice a raw croak from disuse, age, and exposure.

Shirosaki leisurely yawns, uncaring of the ash he inhales in the process, and blinks crystalline tears from his mercurial eyes. "You've got wrinkles now."

"Yeah? And whose fault is that?" Grimmjow bites back, old habit rising to the surface as if it never left, mixed with a little genuine frustration.

"Don't worry, I'll fix you up right." Shirosaki promises evenly, lifting his brows expectantly.

Grimmjow reaches into the coffin again, with both hands this time. He digs his fingers into the ash beneath Shirosaki’s head, rather than callously pull his lover upright by the hair. It smears a mess across Shirosaki’s cheek, worsening the state of his hair when Grimmjow threads his fingers in to cup the back of his skull and lift him securely. Holding Shirosaki upright, Grimmjow brings him to relative eye level.

The silver of Shirosaki's eyes immediately burns to a molten gold, and Grimmjow inhales sharply as the various aches and pains of his body leech away, a crawling warmth replacing the numbing cold. He’s _missed_ this, the feeling of pure power flooding into him, reversing the wear and tear of age, something that was never meant to suit him. It’s not the same as before, not as potent while Shirosaki’s in pieces, but intoxicating all the same.

"There, all better." Shirosaki announces smugly, eyes fading back to their usual monochrome as he weans the transfer off.

Grimmjow rolls his neck and shoulders, luxuriating in the sensation of rejuvenated muscle and youthful skin. It’s almost odd after he spent so long steadily deteriorating, but it’s more nostalgic than anything. After all, Grimmjow has spent centuries as the eternally young and virile, and mere decades as an aging mortal. The difference is negligible.

"The fuck is this, anyways?" Shirosaki demands as he gets a good look at his less than stellar surroundings, thoroughly unimpressed by the bleak walls and gray snow.

"Las Montañas Afiladas." Grimmjow answers distractedly, critically appraising the coffin’s interior.

It took him fourteen years and the blackmail of a witch to get this far, and the ashes contained in dark wood give no further hints. Who knows how many more pieces those bastards chopped Shirosaki into, and then ferreted away to who knew where. Fortunately for Grimmjow’s patience, even as a decapitated head, Shirosaki is still quite far from powerless.

"Oh?" Shirosaki notes curiously. "No wonder it took you so long."

"Ya gonna thank me at any point?" Grimmjow grumbles, even as he privately, but thoroughly welcomes the conversation.

"Thought I did already, or is youth no longer treating you well?" Shirosaki returns smoothly, teasing. "Did you get used to being an old man?"

Grimmjow grunts a vaguely negative response, and Shirosaki snickers.

"Still, I’m surprised there wasn't more to this place." Shirosaki comments, clever as ever when his eyes spy no signs of conflict, and Grimmjow himself had been marked with nothing more than stress and frostbite. "It's almost insulting."

Of course Shirosaki would take offense that being dismembered and scattered to the ass ends of the world wasn't enough to keep him contained. He probably expected some kind of generational guard to be kept routinely in place, and admittedly, it's not just well won arrogance to think such.

Truthfully, Grimmjow himself is quietly suspicious at the lack of resistance, especially over a piece as important as Shirosaki's head. While it _had_ taken him fourteen years, there hasn't been anything more than weather magic and a remote location to defend against discovery, and that seems like a grave underestimation for the people that'd been so thorough at dismantling Shirosaki in the first place.

Grimmjow suspects that breaking the binding magic may have been a signal to whoever cast it, upon which the remaining pieces of Shirosaki's body might be either more fiercely guarded or moved to a new location entirely. There's rather endless possibilities concerning their relatively unknown enemies, and underestimating them is what forced Shirosaki and Grimmjow apart all those years ago. Grimmjow, at least, doesn't intend to make the same mistake twice, and he knows Shirosaki intimately enough by now to think that Shirosaki's flippancy doesn't discredit his own caution.

Whatever the case proves to be, there is no longer a time limit to the search. Grimmjow will not be separated from Shirosaki twice, and as such, the future stretches out without limitation before him to find the rest of his lover's body.

* * *

 Humans were pitiful creatures. Weak, violent, pathetically short lived and even smaller sighted. There's so much celebration over such petty victories, a hubris of wastefulness and an arrogance that believed themselves to be the most powerful beings.

Shirosaki found them hopelessly entertaining to tease and torment. Their blood painted his murals in the most beautiful shades of red, although he had to refresh the color often when it faded to an unsightly brown. He laughed himself to tears when they gave him human sacrifices and bountiful gifts in a pitiful attempt to appease him, as if he couldn't just take it all for himself regardless of their willingness or resistance. Still, their fear had its uses.

Ages past, when Shirosaki hadn't been the last of his kind, when there still had been beings of his likeness if not equal to it, he'd had enemies. Fellow gods, as the humans liked to label him, and Shirosaki supposed the term was apt enough in comparison to their feeble, fleshy little lives. On the brink of extinction, as Shirosaki had grown bored with the competition and set about their annihilation, his enemies enacted a desperate plan to contain his power. They erected obelisks over ancient wells of magic, pure structures that steadily began to limit Shirosaki's freedom. It had been a sound plan, one that would eventually prove effective, but one that had nevertheless been too late to save themselves.

Now, alone and uncontested, Shirosaki had an army of frightened little fleshlings willing to do his every bidding in the fragile hope of mercy. They're primal, feeble little creatures that had scarcely developed language, and their tools were too rudimentary to do anything but break against the obelisks. Desperation, however, was a powerful motivation. One little fleshling eventually grasped that if they could not budge the obelisks themselves, they must focus their efforts on what they _can_ move. It took years of digging up the earth and stone around the base of the first obelisk, but at long last, the great structure tipped and fell. When it cracked and its luminescence died, Shirosaki's limits began to weaken.

As reward for their obedience, Shirosaki gifted the slightly smarter fleshling, the one who'd had the original idea to undermine the obelisk, with prolonged life. It proved an encouragement to the rest, that if they too devised a way to obliterate the other obelisks, they could taste immortality as well. Shirosaki allowed the belief to fester, since hope and greed were powerful motivators as well as fear, never revealing that he had no such intentions to share power permanently. There would still be other gods if he'd believed such a thing were worth his time, and humans were definitely not anywhere remotely near his equal.

Generations of worshipful slaves slowly and steadily felled each obelisk, one by one. The first fleshling lost its usefulness around the third obelisk, when another human found a faster way to accomplish the task, hence gaining Shirosaki's facade of favor instead. This one lasted until the seventh obelisk, before it too was dethroned by another. The third and final human to be gifted a brief share of immortality completed the lengthy task given to its ancestors hundreds of years ago, shattering the final obelisk at long last.

Shirosaki abandoned the fleshlings immediately, eager to reclaim his unrestricted freedom. He ran, unchecked, reacquainting himself with lands that had been beyond his vision for far too long. Not much had physically changed, except humans had sprung up practically everywhere, worse than insects. It was to be expected, as Shirosaki had gotten first hand experience in how quickly humans repopulated and expanded, but still a little annoying. These ones had developed their little civilizations without his influence, and Shirosaki had almost forgotten what fleshlings were like without fear.

He delighted in reeducating them.

* * *

  _"Mon histoire_  
_C'est l'histoire d'un amour_  
_Ma complainte_  
_C'est la plainte de deux coeurs_  
_Un roman comme tant d'autres_  
_Qui pourrait être le vôtre_  
_Gens d'ici ou bien d'ailleurs."_

Grimmjow smirks as Shirosaki's singing echoes off the water and cavern walls, his paddle's subtle splashing a steady accompaniment to the rhythmic consonants and rolling vowels.  It's ridiculous, but not an unwelcome reminder to the time they spent in La Tour de la Ville some centuries ago, when Shirosaki had been temporarily taken with the gripping romance of the era.

 _"C'est la flamme_  
_Qui enflamme sans brûler_  
_C'est le rêve_  
_Que l'on rêve sans dormir_  
_Un grand arbre qui se dresse_  
_Plein de forces et de tendresse_  
_Vers le jour qui va venir."_

Shirosaki continues to croon from the bow of the canoe, where his head is both cushioned by and tied to a life vest, just in case. He's facing forwards, so Grimmjow can't see his expression, but he has no doubt that it's as equally ridiculous as the song he's chosen to serenade the cavern with.

 _"C'est l'histoire d'un amour éternel et banal_  
_Qui apporte chaque jour tout le bien tout le mal_  
_Avec la roue l'on s'enlace_  
_Celle où l'on se dit adieu_  
_Avec les soirées d'angoisse_  
_Et les matins merveilleux."_

Grimmjow can't really help but remember the last time they had been in a boat together. The canals of Flussstadt had not been nearly as clean or beautiful as the ones in La Tour de la Ville, but Shirosaki had been feeling reminiscent and Grimmjow indulgent, permitting a reenactment of a time when the world had not been so clogged with war.

 _"Mon his_ -" Shirosaki abruptly cuts off, and Grimmjow reflexively tenses as well. "Oh, we're here."

Grimmjow snorts, relaxing somewhat at the blasé reaction as he angles the canoe towards the shallow, sandy bank abeam their canoe.

The air is less humid here, suggesting a more open area that must have an entrance elsewhere further in. Grimmjow's boots soak in seawater as he climbs out to haul the canoe ashore, Shirosaki humming his song's tune as he waits. His grin is sharp when Grimmjow collects him and detaches the life vest to instead secure him to a lightweight, customized pack that allows Grimmjow to carry him and still have both hands free. Grimmjow deliberately ignores Shirosaki's knowing look, refusing to be embarrassed.

"Watch your step." Shirosaki chirps playfully from between Grimmjow's shoulder blades, amusement clear in his tone.

"Yeah, yeah." Grimmjow acknowledges, steam hissing from his boots as the water evaporates forcibly under Shirosaki's suggestion, climbing the sloped rise of the cavern floor and towards a tunnel mouth.

Moisture laden lichen smears the walls, a myriad of slimy greens that only worsens when Grimmjow cracks a glowstick to light his way. So far, remote in location is the only thing this tomb has in common with the first, but the much darker, enclosed space has him taking Shirosaki's suggestion seriously.

"Boo, holy magic up ahead." Shirosaki suddenly comments, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth derisively. "Cleric or templar, ya think?"

"Both." Grimmjow grins viciously, gleefully unsheathing his favored blade, stalking forwards in eagerness for the fight.

He's been itching to get at the people who inconvenienced him for way too long. Even throwaway grunts will satisfy for now, just so long as Grimmjow gets to feed someone their own guts in retribution.

The tunnel twists cleanly into another open cavern, bright with sunlight and fresh with plant life fed from the gaping ceiling. It's rich with tropical air and buoyant with light magic, making it little wonder why such a place was chosen to conceal a coffin. The boost to holy magic will be annoying, but Grimmjow hardly expects to be stopped. He can see the coffin's dark wood gleaming from where it's pressed up against the opposite wall from his position, and as predicted, this one is actively defended.

Grimmjow is mutely pleased to find his guess correct, albeit inflated with two templars to a single cleric. One templar hefts a greatshield and shortsword, while the other boasts a two handed greatsword and slightly less armor than the first. Their cleric is also clutching a smaller shield and a stubby mace, adorned in swifter chainmail rather than heavier plates of metal. All three are almost painful to look at, silver armor and weapons polished so brightly they glare in the sun.

"By the Grace of God, you will be purged." The shielded templar intones, and the cleric casts a protection spell on cue.

Grimmjow makes a face, because he's always hated the religious rhetoric that these people spout. He can hear Shirosaki scoff as well, because he personally killed off every other being that could qualify as an actual god, so this make-believe is particularly irksome to him.

Grimmjow flips his blade into a reverse grip, coiling low to the ground, feeling his own armor crawl over his skin like exposed bone, only infinitely harder. Softer, sleek black fur covers his hands, lending him grip and claws while his vision sharpens with vibrant color. Fuck, it's been too long since he wore a predator's shape, and he's feral with glee as the power floods his blood.

He lunges forwards for the first strike, since the holy men would rather play defensively.

Grimmjow doesn't recognize any of the three present. They appear a little young to have participated in the battle two decades past, as if perhaps these are recruits assigned guard duty who've never tasted real battle before- or at least, not against a threat as great as Grimmjow. If this is the case, it certainly shows.

Grimmjow cuts through the cleric's ribs, chainmail split like tissue, once he's blown past both templars and their stupidly heavy weapons. The holy magic stings upon contact, but it's brief and easily ignored. He leaves the cleric to choke on their own blood and frantically cast healing spells, racing for the coffin ahead of the templars' shouts of alarm and denial. Honestly, they prepared to fight him three on one, and somehow expected a fair fight from him? Fools.

He spins once he's close enough, putting his back and Shirosaki towards the coffin, now bracing himself defensively in turn. It shouldn't take Shirosaki long to break the binding magic, and all Grimmjow has to do is prevent the holy men from breaking Shirosaki's line of sight in that time.

The greatsword templar charges ahead with a massively slow swing, which Grimmjow blocks with his blade if only to make Shirosaki's task easier. There's significant weight behind the blow, but not nearly enough to stagger Grimmjow, a fact that clearly shocks the templar. Grimmjow's grin grows wider as he shunts aside the huge sword and swipes out with his free hand, slicing open the exposed mouth of the templar just so they'll instinctively recoil from the pain. After all, he's really only stalling. There'll be plenty of time to kill each and every one of them after they've freed whatever body part of Shirosaki's the coffin contains.

"Kay." Shirosaki chirps shortly, just in time for the shielded templar to thrust forwards with his shortsword.

Grimmjow nimbly evades the stab by vertically leaping straight up, somersaulting once to gain momentum and then coming down to land hard on the extended arm. He can hear the bones crack under the armor even before his weight drives the templar to the ground. He drives his blade into the slim space between metal collar and helmet, severing the spine in one fluid movement. One down, two to go.

"Oh hey, I think I can feel my fingers." Shirosaki comments interestingly as Grimmjow ducks out of the way of the screaming templar with the greatsword. "I wonder what direction this is..."

"Don't-" Grimmjow protests too late, as the coffin explodes into splinters.

Raw, red energy is luckily directed straight towards the ceiling and not sideways towards them, but it still blasts out a heavy shockwave that sends the remaining templar and cleric tumbling ass over teakettle and forcing even Grimmjow to crouch and cover his eyes. Chunks of stone immediately start falling, the entire cavern rumbling with instability, and Grimmjow curses as he sprints for the pale skinned arm dragging itself by black nailed fingers across the scorched floor.

"Whoops." Shirosaki giggles as he observes the mayhem, and his arm jerks as Grimmjow snatches it up by the wrist. "Hey, point me in the right direction, wouldja?"

"Couldn't fucking wait, couldja?" Grimmjow mutters crossly, dodging more falling rocks but obligingly holding Shirosaki's arm towards the holy men, palm facing outwards. "Shoot."

Another, bigger explosion rockets from Shirosaki's hand, consuming the pair in an instant and melting away even more of the cavern's walls. Grimmjow is only a little sorry that he couldn't have played with them more, but he figures Shirosaki is due payback a little bit more.

"Up, up." Shirosaki coaxes, likely guessing that he's obliterated the path back to the boat and that their cleanest escape will be up through the enlarging hole in the roof of the collapsing cavern.

Grimmjow coils his legs and leaps, wind whistling in his ears as he sails clean from the underground system. He can hear Shirosaki whooping at the view from his back, and Grimmjow folds the recovered arm close to his chest so it's not flapping freely as he starts falling back towards the treeline. He lands hard but easily on an extended branch, hunched forwards so that there's no chance Shirosaki will be struck in the face by anything. Grimmjow twists in place, idly admiring how the ground steadily falls in on itself a ways back and a few trees are burning acrid smoke.

He glances down when he feels fingers fist his shirt, and Grimmjow lifts Shirosaki's arm once he realizes that it's attempting to drag itself upwards. He has an idea what Shirosaki wants, and he's feeling sentimental enough to allow it, so Grimmjow holds the arm in the right position. It takes Shirosaki an extra second, but he finds Grimmjow's face easily enough and curls his fingers over a cheek.

"Ah, there you are." Shirosaki sighs happily, thumb stroking beneath Grimmjow's eye. "I've missed this."

Grimmjow hums agreement, letting the fur and claws fall off his hands and the bone-like armor peel back so he looks human again. They should probably get further away from the scene of the disaster, before people show up for damage control- either normal rescue workers or more holy men.

Grimmjow thinks they can afford another minute or two, reacquainting touch as Shirosaki resumes singing like he'd never been interrupted.

 _"Mon histoire_  
_C'est l'histoire qu'on connaît_  
_Ceux qui s'aiment_  
_Jouent la même, je le sais_  
_Mais naive ou bien profonde_  
_C'est la seule chanson du monde_  
_Qui ne finira jamais_  
_C'est l'histoire d'un amour_  
_Qui apporte chaque jour tout le bien tout le mal_  
_Avec la roue l'on s'enlace_  
_Celle où l'on se dit adieu_  
_Avec les soirées d'angoisse_  
_Et les matins merveilleux_  
_Mon histoire_  
_C'est l'histoire qu'on connaît_  
_Ceux qui s'aiment_  
_Jouent la même, je le sais_  
_Mais naive ou bien profonde_  
_C'est la seule chanson du monde_  
_Qui ne finira jamais_  
_C'est l'histoire d'un amour."_

* * *

 As much as Shirosaki had despised those obelisks, he quickly realized that they'd stemmed the magic wells of the lands containing his entrapment, which had left his worshipers powerless and even more in fearful awe of him. The rest of the world, however, had not been so stifled.

Magic had latched onto humans everywhere, inflating their arrogance and generally making them even more annoying than they'd been centuries ago, little more than primates. They'd built towering structures every which place, flaunting power and grandiose civilizations on a hierarchy of the most magically gifted at the top, with the rest crushed at the bottom.

It was an agreeable idealization, if Shirosaki had been so inclined to indulge the fleshings' petty little power struggles. Their use of magic was an annoyance, but no true hindrance. He was able to quickly correct the masses of their woeful ignorance, slaughtering leaders by the thousands, figures previously thought to be untouchable, and generally laying the species low, back where they belong.

Fleshlings under heel once more, Shirosaki sought to quell the rampant annoyance, ordering the wells to be blocked and buried. Humans clearly couldn't be asked to hold themselves in check, so Shirosaki would strip that ability from them completely. Everywhere he traveled, Shirosaki educated the humans of their stupidity and suffocated the magic, ensuring that he was once more the uncontested figure at the top of everything.

* * *

 Grimmjow snorts awake with a start, initially unclear what woke him but well aware of Shirosaki's cackling, so he could make a good guess. He furiously blinks sleep from his eyes, squinting at the head propped on the opposite pillow and then spying the arm trying to make its getaway under the comforter.

"Fucker." He hisses, easily reaching out and snagging the wayward limb by the elbow and dragging it back.

"Aw, G-Grimm." Shirosaki hiccups as Grimmjow pinches the back of his hand, helpless to do anything but endure the stinging. "Yer alarm's going off in a minute anyways."

Grimmjow huffs, relenting on the punishment as he glances to the bedside table and finds Shirosaki telling the truth. He releases the arm and stretches over to turn the clock off before it can start buzzing, yawning as he does so. He rolls back, shifting onto his belly and crossing his wrists under his chin in front of Shirosaki's pillow.

"Mornin'." Shirosaki greets cheekily, and Grimmjow can feel where the arm drags itself onto his back with a prick of nails.

Grimmjow grunts in response, scooting forward just enough to kiss his lover briskly, settling back after just a moment. Shirosaki pouts at receiving such chaste affection, especially when he's in no position to force more, even if he digs his nails into the back of Grimmjow's neck. What he can do in return to the teasing is look, and look he does with brightly golden eyes.

Grimmjow shivers as the power pours into him, heated and tangible like molten metal, strengthening his bones and tightening his skin. He's experienced enough in all of Shirosaki's gifts to recognize the difference between them. This isn't youth, but pure power- unending magic straight from Shirosaki, untainted or lessened by transition through the earth. Shirosaki gives him just a little bit, then weans off, exactly like Grimmjow's kiss.

Purring quietly, Grimmjow thinks he got the better deal, but he gets the point nonetheless. He leans in again, kissing Shirosaki properly as they both deserve and desire. Shirosaki licks impatiently at his lips, so Grimmjow shifts onto his elbows to hold his lover's head properly against the pillow, tangling his fingers in long white hair. He distractedly acknowledges Shirosaki's arm slipping down his back from the new position, but thinks Shirosaki doesn't mind if the groping at his hip is any indication. As ever, Shirosaki tastes like smoke and metal and the air during an electrical storm, utterly intoxicating. Grimmjow adjusts when he's bitten, allowing himself a breath before diving back in at another angle that Shirosaki approves of with a throaty sound.

"Fuck, I hope we find my torso next." Shirosaki curses at some point. "Or at least my fucking pelvis."

Grimmjow snickers but doesn't disagree, smoothing Shirosaki's hair back before he rolls out of bed and to his feet, mindful that the unattached arm remains on the bed. He dresses simply, hooking Shirosaki's arm over one shoulder once he's done and picking up the head with his usual care. Outside, someone lays on the horn of their vehicle, tinny and baleful.

The area is surprisingly urban to contain a hidden coffin of magical properties, but Shirosaki's divination is never wrong, so it must be exactly where he says it will be. Grimmjow detests keeping a low profile, especially when leaving interiors forces him to conceal Shirosaki's dismembered body parts in a bag like luggage, but neither can they afford a screaming panic that will alert enemies to their location before the coffin is found. The concealment is an unfortunate necessity for the time being.

"Yanno, I gotta thank these fucks, in a way." Shirosaki comments from the table as Grimmjow scrapes together a breakfast at the stove. "For being so stupidly arrogant, that they didn't just drop itty bitty parts of me at the bottom of every ocean."

"Like that would've stopped me." Grimmjow scoffs, but he agrees with Shirosaki's intention. That would've been seriously aggravating, and taken much longer.

"Aw, Grimm." Shirosaki croons, which Grimmjow ignores because it's not flattery if it's a fact.

* * *

 There were humans who killed each other, of course, since as long as Shirosaki remembered the creatures existing. From bashing each other's skulls in with rocks, to huge fiery explosions of magic, and most recently with metal made machines; humans rarely ceased slaughtering one another. Shirosaki found it less entertaining than committing the acts himself, but it was still amusing within its own right.

That year, the humans of this country declared war on the country across the sea, and each had their own contingent of allies. Shirosaki predicted deaths by the millions, and wondered if this was the first world war. Surely humans hadn't been advanced enough during his containment to even know there was land across the sea, much less declare war and comfortably traverse it. Shirosaki honestly couldn't care less about the causes, and had frankly retreated from most public appearances, having grown quite bored indeed with an undivided rule. Maybe the winners of this war could be a meaningful pastime once emerged victorious, in crushing it that was.

In this world, there was only one winner, and no human could claim that title.

Shirosaki watched the battles from afar, chin propped in his palms. He watched the dead stack up so high, that the trembling men left alive used their comrades' corpses as walls to shield themselves. He watched atrocities be committed countless times, whether through warfare or terrorism on civilian populations. He watched children become cannon fodder and women stain blood into every cloth they owned attempting to stem innumerable losses. He watched men become animals again, and when finally the war ceased being beneficial to someone, it ended.

Shirosaki was thoroughly disappointed. For a world war, it had all been very mundane. He wondered if he'd started to miss his fellow kind. They, at least, had provided a suitable challenge. Perhaps he should've left one alive, let it grow stronger, and fight it every once in a while, just to prove he was superior.

Shirosaki watched the humans begin a slow recovery, and wondered.

* * *

 "Back." Shirosaki warns, and Grimmjow twists away from the dagger that either would've lost Shirosaki an eye or himself a kidney.

Holy assassins are new, and amusingly called themselves peacekeepers, but they are admittedly more of a threat than the gaudy templars and soft hearted clerics. These ones didn't wait for Grimmjow to confront them. They prey on weakness and lay in ambush, striking swift and certain.

A woman screams from behind her porcelain mask as Grimmjow swiftly robs her of her hand, blood spurting from the glove still clutching tight to her dagger.

They still aren't fast enough to keep up with him.

Grimmjow completes the spin, from hand to heel, shattering her mask and the delicate bones beneath it with a devastating kick. She drops limply, dwindling the defenders' number to just two.

They're fast enough to keep Shirosaki from breaking the curse on the coffin, but there's not much point if Grimmjow slaughters them all anyways. He's been doing so speedily as well, unwilling to allow them to stall for time or reinforcements, especially when ordinary, magically-untouched humans are already wailing in the distance about a murderer in the museum.

It's really an amusing joke, actually, that one of the cursed coffins had been found by archaeologists and happily turned into an exhibit at a public establishment. Perhaps the holy men believed that Grimmjow would shy away from being widely hunted by a government for breaking and entering, destruction of property, theft, and now murder. They clearly have no idea who Grimmjow even is.

With just two peacekeepers remaining, Grimmjow can afford to put his back to the coffin, allowing Shirosaki the time to break down the magic. Additionally, neither of the holy women realize that Shirosaki's arm is contained within Grimmjow's pack as well, so on the incredibly rare chance that Grimmjow could be pinned, they would be in for a nasty surprise.

"POLICE! DROP YOUR WEAPONS!"

Grimmjow doesn't particularly like guns, mostly for the speed of the bullets he sometimes has difficulty avoiding if a shot is fired out of view. At the moment, however, the peacekeepers wielding knives are between Grimmjow and the armed police. They'll suffer from acting first, and their holy purpose probably disallows killing innocent humans, but Grimmjow won't count on it as a guarantee with masked assassins. They'll at least hesitate, giving more time for Shirosaki to-

"Done." Shirosaki declares, and Grimmjow immediately whirls and breaks the glass of the display, jamming his blade beneath the coffin's lid in the same motion.

"Incoming on your left." Shirosaki helpfully points out, and Grimmjow shifts towards his right for extra seconds.

He throws his weight over the coffin in a roll, peeling the lid off simultaneously as he dodges another swift stab. Grimmjow catches the rim of the coffin, hauling it down after him as well to block the peacekeeper from either attacking within it or striking at him again immediately. A bare leg, completely intact from femur to phalanges, rolls out into the crook of his free arm.

"Damn, not my pelvis." Shirosaki grumbles, startling a laugh out of Grimmjow at the complaint.

Aiming at a skylight, Grimmjow leaps.

* * *

 It was completely by chance.

Shirosaki had been occupying himself watching the sordid patterns of an urban predator, faintly interested in how this human stalked his own kind and brutally massacred each kill, when a smear of blue catches his attention instead on one such nightly hunt. Curiosity peaked, Shirosaki left the killer to his ritual and followed after the slap of bare feet on dirty cobble.

He tilted his head and listened for the pattering heartbeat and raspy breathing, followed it through the maze of twisting streets and convoluted piles of trash. Shirosaki could catch the source immediately, but the chase was half the fun, so he kept his pace deliberately slow and enjoyed the pursuit for itself. With a rough scrape of skin against stone, the running ceased.

Shirosaki looked up at the dilapidated, half burnt building with its rotted roof and broken windows, knowing enough that it shouldn't be an inhabitable space for an ordinary human. He pushed the warped door until the hinges broke and it fell inwards with a cloud of dust so thick that Shirosaki sneezed for the first time he could remember. Already intrigued by the new experience, Shirosaki strode inside.

The dust was disturbed here, smeared there, and scraped clean by a dark hole in the wall that led out to the side of the house. Shirosaki's eyes followed the signs, rot and age so thick that his nose was useless, but he could still hear the pounding little heartbeat. It had yet to settle, even in rest, as the house was silent. Shirosaki realized that the source knew he was here, and his interest solidified.

The door had been an obvious warning, of course, but ever since sealing the wells, humans had lost the ability to discern Shirosaki's presence unless he willed it. A rare case happened otherwise every so often, usually resulted from a birth too close to even a buried well. It had been a very long time indeed since Shirosaki had last encountered a human with a touch of magic in their blood.

Most curious, Shirosaki followed his senses to the kitchen's dumbwaiter, and peered down into the black pit its disuse created. In the narrower space, he could just scarcely scent a human, ripe with filth. Shirosaki wasn't inclined to cram himself into such a squeeze, no matter how intrigued he felt, and meant to retreat in order to find another way down onto the floor below.

Something sharp sliced his scalp, and Shirosaki recoiled out of the passage, more startled than pained. He was bewildered when the heartbeat downstairs disappeared, transitioning into something that scrambled up the dumbwaiter shaft to the floor above instead. He'd been tricked? Had this human learned to project its life signs elsewhere, and disguise its true origin?

His excitement increased, and crested when Shirosaki reached up and touched the stinging spot atop his head. His fingers came down bloody. He was delighted, and raced upstairs, heedless of the stairs that crumbled under his weight.

Shirosaki cornered a child effortlessly in the room above- a child, malnourished and filthy, but fierce. The little thing still clutched the knife that cut Shirosaki, and fearlessly bared a gap toothed snarl up at him. He had wild, tangled blue hair; the sort that likely had gotten him tossed onto the streets to starve in the first place. Humans despised those different, after all, especially when they couldn't tell how or why one of their own was especially unique.

"Why, aren't you charming?" Shirosaki chirped, crouching down with his chin on his knees and palms flat to the floor. "How'd you manage that?"

The child looked like he wanted to stab Shirosaki in the eye from the new vantage point, but some astute instinct held him still and only narrowed his own eyes- blue, just like his hair, and lit with a fire too bright to be natural. Even magically-untouched humans would've been able to see that much, and it must've frightened them stupid.

"Yer not normal." The child bit out around his missing teeth, wary but unafraid.

Shirosaki bared his own full teeth in a savage smile. "Not in the slightest. You aren't either."

"No." The child spat, and lisped. "Ya thoulda died. All the reth did."

"The rest?" Shirosaki tilted his head, inquiringly. "Ah, I see. Fool them into believing you're downstairs, then hit them from above." He nodded, because it was a clever little trick. "But you see, little one, I'm not human."

The boy didn't lower his knife or relax his posture, rightfully cautious, but some of the tightness around his eyes leeched away at Shirosaki essentially praising his tactics. He doesn't immediately denounce Shirosaki's claim either.

"Say, how many have you killed now?" Shirosaki asked, because the killer he'd been stalking for the past month had been on the prowl to claim the fifth life tonight, and he wants to know if this child had already surpassed a grown man with thrice the wordly experience.

"Six." The child admitted without hesitation or regret, deliberate in his pronunciation of the number, and delight surged anew in Shirosaki's chest at the confirmation.

He had neither spied nor scented blood or corpses downstairs, implying something very morbid and intelligent indeed. There's something to be said about a child managing to kill six adults by his lonesome, and something even greater that the boy had managed to even cut Shirosaki at all. Little more than a papercut in all honesty, but Shirosaki literally cannot recall the last time someone had made him bleed, and that was a worthy victory indeed.

"Marvelous." Shirosaki breathed.

* * *

 A head, an arm, and a leg are Grimmjow's spoils after thirty years past their initial separation. It's a slow process; those bastards really hid the coffins well. Time, however, is Grimmjow's advantage.

Majat E Bardha is frigid, but not an unnatural cold like the weather magic that had warded Shirosaki's head. It prompts Grimmjow to get new winter gear, and swaddle Shirosaki's limbs in extra cloth as well, even if neither of them technically need the protection. Preventing frostbite in the first place is easier than reversing it afterwards, and Grimmjow is at least trying to blend in among the locals, distinctive blue hair hidden away under a furred cap.

A leg is much larger and longer than an arm or head, and subsequently more difficult to carry and conceal. Grimmjow hates the idea of leaving any piece of Shirosaki behind even temporarily, especially after struggling for so long to find any, but as the opposition guarding each coffin increases, Grimmjow cannot sacrifice mobility for peace of mind. Shirosaki's head remains with him always, nonnegotiable, but Grimmjow reluctantly acquiesces to hiding away the leg and arm prior to heading for the next coffin's resting place.

"It'll be fine." Shirosaki assures, once he's finished layering curses and wards and other such deadly magic over the nondescript crate containing his limbs. "There and back before you know it."

Grimmjow huffs sharply through his nose, still displeased by the measures, no matter how necessary.

Shirosaki looks downright silly in a pair of reflective ski-goggles, the rest of his face concealed with endothermic cloth to protect from the biting wind as Grimmjow double checks that the straps tying him to the pack are secure. Normally such measures would be completely pointless, as Shirosaki cannot suffer illness or permanent injury, but until his heart reconnects blood flow with his brain, his power will remain significantly lessened. Shirosaki is as vulnerable as he will ever be, and Grimmjow is taking no chances in unnecessary harm coming to him.

"Are there any songs about hiking?" Shirosaki wonders aloud as Grimmjow begins just that activity, muffled under his cloth and the whistling wind. "I've never bothered to check."

Grimmjow resists the urge to roll his eyes, if only to keep his footing secure. If he weren't attempting to keep a low profile to conceal his approach, hiking wouldn't be the thing he'd be doing. Leaping great distances is what they're both accustomed to doing, if travel is something desired. The slow crawl of a human pace is exacerbating in an already unforgiving environment.

"Should I make one up?" Shirosaki poses the question in faux seriousness, baiting Grimmjow into conversation with a snort.

"Please don't."

Shirosaki gasps in mock offense. "And here I thought you liked my singing!"

"What gave ya that idea?" Grimmjow smirks against the rough cloth of his muffler, using a thin tree to haul himself higher as the path grows steeper.

"Only a couple centuries of you never telling me to shut up." Shirosaki hums smugly, which Grimmjow silently allows because there is a point there. "Aha! Oh wait, ow."

Grimmjow straightens up sharply. "Ow? Whaddya mean ow?"

"I can feel my leg, and it ain't exactly pleasant right now. Not that one," Shirosaki corrects when Grimmjow about faces back the way he's come. "The other one. Some fucker is hacking it into smaller bits."

Grimmjow snarls angrily at the idea, and there's no guarantee that the coffin nearby possesses the leg being currently mutilated further, but he still ups his pace. If it's not, that's the worse case scenario, because their enemies are attempting to stretch out the search even longer by breaking Shirosaki into even more pieces to conceal away. If Grimmjow doesn't find that limb today, he'll have a whole lot more extra work ahead of him.

"Sonuvabitch, that's annoying." Shirosaki grumbles, sounding more inconvenienced than legitimately pained. "It's not cold."

"Fucking damn it!" Grimmjow swears viciously, because that's confirmation he won't be finding the correct limb up ahead, although he doesn't lessen his speed in the slightest.

Now, he has an abundance of excess fury to burn off, and hopefully several targets to direct it towards.

* * *

 Shirosaki had never tried sharing power before- real, actual power, and not the petty party trick of granting youth. In the time of 'gods', there'd been absolutely no reason for such a thing, since they all possessed the same abilities. Once humans had been his only company, there'd been even less reason to entertain the idea.

Now, however, Shirosaki had a vicious little brat worth his attention, and Shirosaki wanted to give him a taste. What Shirosaki didn't want was for his power to blow the kid up from the inside out, because he didn't know how humans handled that shit. Being born with magic in their blood from an earthen well was extremely different from receiving it straight from a 'god', undiluted. So, before Shirosaki gifted Grimmjow power- and what a gorgeous name for his ferocious little blue haired brat- he experimented.

His caution proved warranted, as Shirosaki did in fact burn the first human into gooey cinders within seconds of the attempt. He noted that transferring power directly through skin on skin contact resulted in severe, flesh-eating burns that didn't stop deepening even after he drew his hands away. Shirosaki needed an indirect route to transfer power then, so he attempted using just eye contact with the second experiment. This one proved marginally more successful, until the human's eyeballs burst and the back of their skull cracked and leaked grey matter down the spine. Shirosaki needed to learn the limits of what a human could take.

Gradually, through multiple attempts, Shirosaki learned to regulate the transfer rate through his own restraint and synchronously learned how much humans could take before bursting at their fleshy little seams. Small, brief dosages worked best, but Shirosaki could prolong the eye contact further if he sent across just a bare trickle. The results were often power hungry maniacs, but that seemed more the inherent human nature of Shirosaki's test subjects than any true indication of side effects. Still, in the interest of being thorough, Shirosaki expanded his pool of study.

Statistically, women curiously handled the influx of power more efficiently then their male counterparts, invoking strategy rather than a blind dash for immediate gratification. Shirosaki never actually allowed any plans to come to fruition, since he eliminated all the test subjects once he was certain the power stuck, but the difference was amusing to note regardless. Children could bodily handle less, and had even less impulse control than men, but those experiments were arguably the most important, since Grimmjow himself was also a kid. Shirosaki also learned that the hale and healthy brats accepted power more easily than their sickly and thin counterparts, so he made a note to theoretically fatten Grimmjow up before feeding him power.

In all the meanwhile between the spans of Shirosaki's frequent experiments, he kept tabs on Grimmjow. He didn't stick to the kid's side like glue, uninterested in spoiling the ferocity out of Grimmjow, but also unwilling to lose the child from something as mundane as starvation. When his experiments cleared a home of its inhabitants, Shirosaki ushered Grimmjow inside to feed, wash, and clothe himself before any local enforcement reared its head. Shirosaki was pleased when Grimmjow snatched what was given and never demanded more, nor insisted on remaining where it was warm and comfortable. As soon as he had what he needed to survive another week on the streets, Grimmjow was straight back out the door, as if uncomfortable closed in by four walls and a roof all the time. He was a wild little beast, exactly how Shirosaki wanted him to remain.

Shirosaki had no doubt that Grimmjow didn't fully trust him, could see it in the glare of his blue eyes, but considering Shirosaki didn't want or need that trust, he remained content with Grimmjow's wariness. He never exactly _did_ anything to encourage mistrust, but Shirosaki wasn't interested in a lazy pet, and subsequently never treated Grimmjow with any particular fondness beyond praise for when Grimmjow showed his violent or intelligent spurts of growth. Shirosaki knew Grimmjow was smart enough to acknowledge that he was being used for something, but so long as he continued to benefit within acceptable reason, Grimmjow would continue to allow it.

In a few more years, once Shirosaki was undoubtedly confident that Grimmjow was strong and sturdy enough to withstand gifted power in accordance with his own magical blood, he'd begin to truly groom him into the opponent Shirosaki longed to combat.

* * *

 "Brace." Shirosaki warns, and Grimmjow immediately bends his knees, anchoring himself lower to the ground.

A split second later, there's a pressure in the center of his back, Shirosaki's head being forced against his spine as he looses a blast that has carmine light igniting the snow and throwing new shadows across the landscape. Whoever that was encroaching upon Grimmjow's back is assuredly no longer a threat, so he lunges forwards instead.

He can see the coffin, still sealed, up ahead. It's half buried in the snow, having been hurriedly dropped by its pallbearers once Grimmjow came across the holy group attempting to relocate it. It's confirmation that their enemies are wising up, making Grimmjow's task at reassembling Shirosaki that much more aggravating.

Grimmjow snaps an archer's metal bow against his palm and follows through, gouging his claws into the man's stomach through the thick coat to disembowel the bastard in one fell swoop. He tosses the still breathing body aside, deeming it no longer a threat, and refocuses on those still able bodied and armed. There's only three left, and two are clerics. The rest dot the landscape in pieces.

Something sparks in his peripheral, likely a spell coming up against Shirosaki's ward and being rebuffed, so Grimmjow ignores it and- agony starbursts against his left temple. Grimmjow staggers, half blind, unable to tell whether he'd been physically struck or otherwise. He bats aside a stab from the lone peacekeeper attempting to capitalize on a moment of weakness, and unwillingly retreats a pace to regain his footing.

"Grimm?" Shirosaki immediately notices the retreat, seemingly not having noticed the sparks after all. "What is it?"

"Head hurts." Grimmjow grunts in response, and it does.

White light completely blinds his left eye, sending nails of pain into his skull, and it's spreading. It's distracting, and Grimmjow curses viciously as he takes a blade through the hand rather than safely deflecting it away. His blood speckles the snow and burns black, hissing upon contact with moisture. He forces his fingers closed over the blade, ripping it out of the woman's grasp rather than let her retreat with the weapon, although she does escape from his reach unscathed. Grimmjow yanks the dagger free and tosses it out of the way, feeling the burn of his flesh start to knit itself back together.

Shirosaki is spitting savagely behind Grimmjow, burning words that warp the air and are unrecognizable to his mostly human ears. Grimmjow recognizes Shirosaki's native tongue, knowing enough that his lover is working to determine the source of his discomfort and then undo it. As much as he despises his own helplessness, Grimmjow can do nothing but defend himself and wait to be cured while the disorientation mounts.

The white has consumed his entire vision, his arms battered with wounds from instinctively fending off the attacker, by the time a droplet of ink lands in the center of the barren canvas. The blackness wisps and contorts like smoke, providing a dark, but translucent window through the blankness. Grimmjow focuses through it, and seizes the floating, porcelain face of the red-lipped moon. Unsuspecting and slow, the moon shatters like a glass bauble beneath his hand, and Grimmjow snarls in triumph as it falls limply from his grasp.

The drops of ink are falling faster now, spattering wider swathes and bringing numb relief to the stabbing pain in his head with every speck of his vision returned. Grimmjow spies two shadows attempting to clumsily flee with an angular shape while he's indisposed, and launches after the pair. He cuts down the first with their back to him, and the other yelps as they're forced to bear the weight of the shape alone. Staggered, they're easy prey for Grimmjow to generously decapitate.

The shadows and shape fall darkly into the pristine snow, and the silence is piercing. Grimmjow shakes his head, trying to dispel the ringing, unable to hear if Shirosaki is instructing him in any way. It's difficult to think, everything boiled down to stark colors and flat, one tone sounds; movement strictly classified between threat and harmless. Shirosaki is here, isn't he? He should be here, as he's always been, with Grimmjow. He must be here somewhere.

Grimmjow kneels in the cold white and sulks, glancing about at the carnage without thought or interest as Shirosaki eludes his darkened sight. There's nothing left to fight, and the blackness in his eyes is comforting like a silk blindfold lovingly tied around his head. It's familiar, like he's seen ink pooled onto a liquid picture before, tinting everything in comforting, sharp angles of ebony. Grimmjow sniffs and carelessly wipes at his nose with his wrist, subsequently distracted by the smear on his fur. It's shiny and sickeningly bright, glimmering like spiderweb, and he disgustedly wipes it off on his pants leg. He shakes his claws away and checks his nose again, grossed out to find more of the light bleeding onto his fingertips.

Grimmjow grumbles as he washes his hands with all the white cold laying around, dissatisfied. Shirosaki would know what to do if he were here. He'd laugh at Grimmjow's nose for leaking starlight, and then he'd wash it away with the new moon because only Shirosaki's allowed to give Grimmjow's blood colors. Seriously, where is he? Grimmjow clings to the question and sluggishly looks around again, counting the stains of crimson: one, two, three, four, five and... ah, six. Six is an important number, nostalgic and nuanced. Shirosaki loves the number six a lot, and Grimmjow reaches around to touch the tattoo on his back right ribs.

His knuckles brush fabric that protrudes outwards, drawing his curiosity away from trying to touch dyed skin. Grimmjow contorts, trying to see what's stuck to him and finding straps tied tight. His fingers follow the lines, fumbling drunkenly with the weight as Grimmjow pulls the bundle around. His dizzy reflection stares back from a smear of rainbow oil, concealing half the face of another moon. This one doesn't have red lips, but sharp teeth and a blue tongue. Grimmjow squints at the disjointed picture, trying to piece together why half the image isn't right but the rest is so familiar. He wipes at the iridescence since it's the part that's wrong, finding glass against his thumb. He pushes at it harder, and the mask rolls up and off.

Gold burns through Grimmjow's mind, as fierce and scalding as a wildfire, burning away the fog and rot until the land can grow something new. Recollections take the place of fresh sprouts- the sparks, the pain, the _coffin_ \- and Grimmjow snaps his head up to check that it's safe. The dark wood rests exactly where it was dropped between the bodies of two bisected clerics, mere feet from his seat.

Grimmjow breathes air up sharply towards his forehead, and glances down at Shirosaki's face between his palms, the bastard grinning wickedly up at him.

"Welcome back. Enjoy your trip?"

* * *

 "Quit squirming brat." Shirosaki scolded, and effortlessly hauled Grimmjow back into his lap.

"I can cut my own damn hair!" Grimmjow spat, refused to give up the ghost of a struggle despite being well aware of how hopelessly outmatched he was.

"Into a rat's nest, yeah." Shirosaki agreed mockingly, and brandished the pair of scissors. "But I'm the one who has to look at you, so I'm gonna make it look nice. So shut up and hold still."

Grimmjow grumbled and sullenly crossed his arms, slumped as low as Shirosaki's restricting arm allowed. Shirosaki rolled his eyes and boosted the brat back up. He waited until Grimmjow realized he was beaten, then let go to comb his fingers through tangled blue tresses, freshly washed.

"This is dumb." Grimmjow muttered petulantly as Shirosaki parted his hair the way he wanted and began cutting.

Shirosaki hummed agreeably as he worked, and thought back to his practice with various experiments until he'd settled on a look for Grimmjow, confident he could achieve the image desired. He didn't expect Grimmjow to maintain the style when left alone, but it'd be easy to fix up whenever Shirosaki himself was around to look upon the brat.

Grimmjow didn't know his own age, and Shirosaki didn't care enough to either find out or keep track. All Shirosaki cared about was whether Grimmjow kept up with his health and maintained adequate weight and muscle mass. The decision to improve Grimmjow's appearance just for the sake of looking nice was a recent development, as Shirosaki had learned through his experiments how much he despised how filthy humans could easily get, and decided that Grimmjow wouldn't be.

"Am I almost ready for whatever you want me for yet?" Grimmjow asked, flicking away the loose hairs that landed on his bare arms.

"Not yet. You're still too short." Shirosaki denied and checked that Grimmjow's hair was all even length before he moved onto the next section. "But I can start weaning you in, I guess."

"Weaning?" Grimmjow echoed dubiously. "The fuck does that mean?"

"I give you a little bit at a time, so you get used to it, and can take more later." Shirosaki explained simply, and turned Grimmjow's head firmly to trim the sides of his head.

Conceded to his fate, Grimmjow held the position. "Give me what?"

"Power. Or magic, I guess you could call it." Shirosaki muttered, faintly distracted as he cut carefully around Grimmjow's ear.

His caution was rewarded as the brat perked up, and nearly made Shirosaki cut his fragile cartilage.

"You can do that? Just give me power?"

"Hold still." Shirosaki reprimanded, waited until Grimmjow resumed his prior position, then confirmed the questions. "Of course I can. Who do you think I am exactly?"

"Iunno," Grimmjow shrugged carefully. "Yer just Shiro."

Shirosaki barked a laugh and had to take the scissors away from any dangerous mishaps himself this time. Once, he would've been offended that anyone dared to call him _just_ anything, but today he only found it amusing. To Grimmjow, that's all the information he needed, and it was good enough for Shirosaki.

"I am." He agreed with a lingering snicker, and turned Grimmjow's head the other way to finish his remaining side. "And you're Grimmjow, a paragon of your species."

"A what." Grimmjow questioned flatly, as if uncertain whether he was just insulted or not.

"The best." Shirosaki defined, overly simplified as he sat back to appraise his work.

"Oh." Grimmjow remarked, quietly surprised by the sudden compliment. "Is that why ya like me?"

"Yes," Shirosaki confirmed, and set the scissors aside with a job well done. "That's why I like you, Grimm."

* * *

 "Give it," Shirosaki whines impatiently. "Give it, give it, giv-"

"I'm going, shut up." Grimmjow huffs, dropping the coffin beside the crate concealing Shirosaki's limbs, having hauled the thing all the way back down the mountain side since it contained Shirosaki's torso and hence made it easier, and safer to carry in case he needed to drop it in a hurry.

Grimmjow flips the lid off for good, reaching in to prop the limbless torso upright against the side of the coffin. It blows his mind that their enemies had left such a huge piece of Shirosaki completely intact, from shoulders to pelvis, but their loss is his gain.

"Gimme, gimme, gimme!"

"You are literally the worst." Grimmjow informs the chanting head, pulling Shirosaki around off his back and undoing the straps that secure him to the pack.

Despite his words, he can't help the excited flutter of his heart in unsaid, mutual excitement. Despite evidence that the holy organization has recovered Shirosaki's remaining arm and leg, and subsequently severed them into smaller pieces in the time it took to climb up, and then down the mountain; their time is nigh. Once head and heart are reconnected, even the missing limbs won't be enough to restrict Shirosaki from enacting a brutal and satisfying revenge.

Handling Shirosaki's disembodied head for hopefully the last time, ever, Grimmjow maneuvers him over the stump of Shirosaki's neck.

White heat erupts from both ends of the cauterized flesh, spitting black blood that lashes out like vines to latch onto the adjoining body part. Grimmjow lets go and sits on his heels, watching Shirosaki's flesh contort and rejoin with itself in unnatural fashion. He can hear the snap of bones reconnecting, and sees the veins in Shirosaki's neck bulging like the ebony branches of a tree under his skin. With a final hiss of steam that removes any marks of separation, Shirosaki's head is reattached to his torso.

Shirosaki's chest expands as he inhales deeply, the edges of him pulsing with a red glow. When he opens his eyes, the irises are molten gold, and Grimmjow shivers as power pours into him through the eye contact. It's a heady rush, more potent than anything he's felt since finding Shirosaki's head years and years ago, and he's missed it immensely.

Shirosaki's eyes cool to silver, but his expression still smolders promisingly. "Give me my limbs, Grimm."

Grimmjow slaps for the crate, the wards and curses falling away under his touch, and grabs the first thing he touches upon opening it. He lifts out the leg first, obligingly holding it into place until the same effect takes places at the hip, and then retrieves the arm. He sits back once the limb is latched onto and pulled into place, watching intently as Shirosaki rolls his neck and wiggles his toes. Once reattached, Shirosaki rolls his shoulder and flexes his fingers with a savage smile on his lips, pleased. He puts his hand out flat, parallel to the ground and palm facing downwards.

The earth rumbles beneath them, writhing as if infested with parasites as Shirosaki calls forth metals from deep within the rock. Liquid metals rise to meet the order, bursting through the soil and swirling in the places Shirosaki has missing limbs. He calls until there's enough to satisfy him, and then condenses the metal into a temporary arm and leg. The pair of prosthetic are mottled with differing metals and impurities, but flex as if living muscle as Shirosaki stands and stretches with a groan of pleasure.

Grimmjow remains silent, watching with rapt attention as Shirosaki almost returns to full strength.

Bringing his arms down, Shirosaki appraises his hands, both real and metal. He curls his differing toes in the ice and exhales a cloud of steam. He turns back towards Grimmjow and holds open his arms.

"C'mere, Grimm."

Grimmjow stands on his knees and flings his arms around Shirosaki's waist, embracing his lover tightly and burying his face into a pale abdomen. He feels Shirosaki's hand- warm flesh and blood- stroke through his hair, calm and methodical.

"Almost, Grimm. We're almost done."

* * *

 Shirosaki was frustrated. It'd become quite evident that no matter how much power he shoved into Grimmjow, nothing could change the fact that his fleshy little human body was still far too fragile. It bled when he fell against stone, and broke when he landed from too high up. Shirosaki patched him back up every time, but there was no point in fighting if they had to stop every few seconds to ensure Grimmjow didn't literally fall to pieces. There had to be a way to make him sturdier, so he could actually use the power given to him without shattering himself in the process.

More experiments were necessary.

Human bones were the firmest, strongest things about them, and even those were pitifully weak; especially when there was none on the outside to protect their thin skin and soft muscles. Grimmjow would need some kind of armor that could protect him, but not hinder his movement. So Shirosaki tweaked and prodded until his subjects could conjure a much denser version of their bones over their bodies, and tested the resistance thoroughly until the armor held up against his strikes. He made their actual bones much tougher as well, less likely to break at any little bump.

The human heart and respiratory systems were complex and delicate. Grimmjow could pant his lungs out and still pass out from not receiving enough air when he moved too much. So Shirosaki simplified and strengthened the process, protected the heart and lungs better, and made it so his subjects would break their legs running before they lost their breath.

The muscles were rudimentary, but largely functional, if only they didn't tear so easily. They did grow back in stronger after tearing though, so Shirosaki didn't completely remake the fibers. He just made it so that it'd take a lot more stress before tearing, and then healing would be faster. The experiments gave him the idea to essentially do the same thing to the skin, so it'd soon stitch itself back up after ripping apart. The less time Shirosaki had to stop and patch Grimmjow back up, the better.

Human eyes couldn't see as far or as sharply, so Shirosaki improved those qualities. The ears would hear a wider range of sounds from farther away, as well as the nose and tongue with their respective senses. Their teeth and fingernails were pitifully dull, so Shirosaki implemented talons, claws, and fangs. Fur was thicker and warmer than clothing, so it replaced skin when necessary. Their joints needed more flexibility and more strength, able to bend farther and faster without breaking or tearing.

Shirosaki experimented until he was satisfied that he'd sufficiently covered every aspect of human weakness, and subsequently improved upon it. When it came to introducing these improvements upon Grimmjow, however, he hesitated.

The last thing Shirosaki wanted to do was completely strip Grimmjow of his autonomy. If Shirosaki remade him exactly as he wanted, he'd also know every single weakness and all the fun would be ruined. How could Shirosaki make it so that Grimmjow could build his own body stronger, without Shirosaki's knowledge acting as a cheat, and how Grimmjow could do it without destroying himself in the process with his _lack_ of knowledge?

Inspiration for the solution struck as a memory, of the first time Shirosaki found his little human hellion. Six kills, and yet no sign of the bodies. A sore lack of food, and yet Grimmjow had not starved. Obviously, Shirosaki had never shared his own flesh and blood before in any capacity, but the question was worth investigating for its viability. The results of his subsequent experiments were very enlightening.

So Shirosaki cut open his wrist and bid Grimmjow to drink.

* * *

 Grimmjow bites deeply into Shirosaki's neck from behind and drinks greedily, acutely starving for his lover in a way that'd been deprived of him for too damn long. Three decades, has it been? Grimmjow quit keeping meticulous track after they recovered Shirosaki's torso and rejoined his limbs and head to it. It's been a month or two since then, but his appetite has yet to be sated.

Shirosaki's hum vibrates under his teeth and he idly reaches back to stroke Grimmjow's hair, content to be fed from as he prepares the materials to find the rest of his body parts. He knows Grimmjow's hunger, personally cultivated it for centuries, and doesn't mind supplying what Grimmjow wants now that his blood flow is active again.

The charm Shirosaki'd crafted to protect Grimmjow from another debilitating curse is swung forwards over his shoulder on its chain from Grimmjow's neck, an extra precaution just in case Shirosaki's blood in Grimmjow's veins isn't enough. Curses shouldn't have touched Grimmjow either way, but one clearly had, and Shirosaki isn't willing to risk another doing worse. Who knows what weird magic people have been up to in the time Shirosaki's been disconnected- literally.

"Greedy boy." Shirosaki murmurs, chuckling as Grimmjow bites him harder in retribution for the tease. "I know. Have your fill."

Grimmjow grumbles wordlessly, withdrawing his teeth to better lap and suck at the wound that Shirosaki graciously keeps from healing so he can drink. He settles more comfortably behind his physically smaller lover, molding to his pale back with legs on either side of Shirosaki and his own arms around a trim waist. Grimmjow lets his eyes drift forwards as he feeds, watching Shirosaki's nimble fingers- both metal and flesh- twist crystal into new shapes with the ease of someone inhuman.

Shirosaki holds one up to appraise through the light, inspecting it for impurities and is seemingly satisfied by the result. He puts it aside and picks up a new chunk of rock to begin whittling it away next. It's been awhile since Grimmjow last saw Shirosaki's claws fully fledged, and not just his choice of black nails, and he thoughtlessly reaches forwards to touch. Shirosaki pauses as Grimmjow's fingers brush the back of his hand, obligingly holding still as Grimmjow reacquaints himself with the claws in question.

Blood has pooled in his mouth with his distraction, so Grimmjow swallows one last time and pulls away with a brisk lick of his lips, careless of the wound he knows Shirosaki will close now that his attention is elsewhere. The brief meal sits warm in his belly, thick ichor that'll soon become his own. Words can't describe how much Grimmjow missed the feeling. All his transformations up until now have been lackluster, scraping the bottom of an empty barrel as remnants of a time when he fed regularly. That time has come again, and he looks forward to how much more powerful he'll be once more.

This time, Shirosaki won't send him away.

Grimmjow laces their fingers together tightly and buries his face into Shirosaki's skin, inhaling deeply.

"What's with you?" Shirosaki inquires amusedly, sufficiently distracted from his work.

"Missed you." Grimmjow admits throatily, his free arm sliding up over Shirosaki's chest to clutch him tighter still.

His lover makes an intrigued sound. "It just hitting you now?"

Grimmjow grunts in non-answer, already embarrassed enough by his own behavior. It's not often he feels this way, all softness ruthlessly carved out of him an extremely long time ago; but somehow, some time along the way, a little bit squirmed its way back inside.

Shirosaki lets him be quiet, and lets himself be held.

* * *

 Grimmjow swore as he hit pavement and bounced, taking a good chunk of the asphalt with him on the rebound. He rolled just before Shirosaki could pin him down, and pushed off with his hands to avoid the debris Shirosaki's own landing threw up. He's a quick learner, and Shirosaki delighted in pushing Grimmjow's limits with every spar.

His armor was scuffed and battered all over, but it was regenerating quickly where it's broken, exactly as Shirosaki designed it to do. Grimmjow chose to wear it in a more lightweight fashion than Shirosaki imagined, but the less weight made him faster and Shirosaki approved greatly of the choice. It was immensely more fun to chase than to slap around a tank. It made the hits he did land all the more satisfying.

To his greatest enjoyment, Shirosaki was not unscathed either. Feeding Grimmjow his blood had had the unforeseen side effect of slowing his own regeneration, a result that hadn't appeared in his experiments because he obviously hadn't given any subject repeated feedings. With every meal, Grimmjow grew a lot stronger, and Shirosaki infinitesimally weaker. Having experienced the results of Grimmjow's growth ever since, Shirosaki found it was more than worth the exchange.

He relished the little cuts and bruises, even as they still healed up rather quickly, just not instantly as before. He still felt the ache in his shoulder from where Grimmjow had kicked him, the spurs on his calf gouging deep and tearing flesh as he leapt away. His blood pounded with the thrill of battle, of satisfying combat, and Shirosaki wanted more.

He summoned his mask and built energy between the horns, spying Grimmjow's widened eyes mere seconds before he released the magic. Red consumed the deserted street and decimated the next block of buildings at least, and Shirosaki roared his challenge. It hadn't been his largest blast by far, more a test to see how Grimmjow handled experiencing such a thing than any real intent to harm. Doubtlessly, harm was given, but Grimmjow knew he wouldn't be coddled.

True enough, Grimmjow emerged from the rubble, scorched and coughing but wholly intact.

"What the fuck was that?" He also immediately complained.

Shirosaki rumbled his amusement, his voice warbled through the mask. "I never named it, but humans used to call it a Cero. Looks like you took it pretty well."

Grimmjow squinted at him through the smoke and fanned it away with one furred hand. "The fuck is on your face?"

"Technically, my skull." Shirosaki graciously answered, clawed hands propped on his hips. "Why, don't you like it?"

"Shut up." Grimmjow grumbled, annoyed by the teasing. "Why've I never seen it before?"

"You weren't ready for it." Shirosaki stated bluntly. "Appearing human dulls my power somewhat. Regaining pieces of my true form strengthens it."

Grimmjow's browns furrowed. "So yer holding back on me." He concluded correctly, and his hair bristled like the feline he chose to resemble.

Shirosaki grinned wickedly beneath his mask. "You wanna see the real thing? Come at me, Grimm."

* * *

 Shirosaki is decimating the opposition, and it looks fucking fantastic. Grimmjow can literally just stand back and watch, Shirosaki needing no help whatsoever, so he does and quite enjoyably at that.

He's just kind of strolling behind, meandering through corpses- or what remains of them- and keeping an eye out for anything outside the ordinary. Grimmjow feels the charm under his shirt heat up, repelling another curse targeting him, and side-eyes the little red dots of cameras that survived Shirosaki's rampage. Someone's clearly got eyes on the feed, though whether they're in the building or elsewhere is indeterminable for the moment. He walks on.

Shirosaki's laughing, his gleefully maniacal cackle that Grimmjow honestly shouldn't find as charming as he does. It's a sweet sound, and Grimmjow picks up his pace in order to hear it unfiltered through the dilapidated hallways.

This underground facility is- or was heavily secured, and well hidden. Grimmjow definitely wouldn't have found it on his own, save perhaps by accident, but Shirosaki's divinations continue to bear fruit. All their high tech has proven useless, and Shirosaki tears through magic protections like tissue paper. Whatever had been used to defeat Shirosaki in the first place clearly isn't here, otherwise Grimmjow believes they would've sent it out already. Grimmjow himself had only caught a glimpse of the group that'd invaded their old home, and there's no telling how things have changed since then.

Grimmjow had been sore over that bit for a long time, but fourteen years apart had done a lot to mellow the sting. Shirosaki's since explained himself, so Grimmjow no longer cares. Shirosaki promised it won't happen again, and Grimmjow swore that it won't either on his own power.

"Found it!" Shirosaki sings from up ahead, and Grimmjow reflexively grins in response.

* * *

 Shirosaki took Grimmjow to the countryside, weary of swatting the flies that came in droves after they destroyed the city so often with their spars. Grimmjow had proven adorably skittish about leaving for unfamiliar areas, since concrete and metal had been all that he'd ever known. Clean air was weird to him, grass utterly foreign and clear water interpreted as a trick. It was cute, and Shirosaki found himself weirdly enamored with Grimmjow's reactions to new things.

He forbid Grimmjow from using his claws to climb a tree, and snickered when the man fell swearing from the branches. Grimmjow nearly fucking drowned the first time he tried swimming, until Shirosaki fished him out and showed him how to walk over the water instead. Grimmjow thrived at hunting, no surprise there nor instruction needed. He could run for miles out here without once needing to take a turn or jump over an obstruction, and Grimmjow took full advantage as Shirosaki watched him essentially frolic.

Of course, they still sparred on the daily. Grimmjow continued growing and learning at a ravenous pace, pulling more and more pieces of Shirosaki's true form to the surface to combat at greater stakes. He suckled on Shirosaki's wrists like a babe, then proceeded to bite the hand that fed him, just as Shirosaki invited. Shirosaki still bested Grimmjow in every fight, but the challenge was growing greater with each passing day, and Grimmjow was still well within his own natural, human lifespan. In another century or two, he might very well become the equal Shirosaki so desired.

Until then, Shirosaki enjoyed the little things.

He found out Grimmjow was allergic to a certain kind of a fish when the dumbass nearly died from an inflamed throat. He'd had no protests when Shirosaki swiftly removed the allergy from his body, though he'd had many when Shirosaki set out on a crusade to find what else Grimmjow was allergic to. No man of his would be felled by something as stupid as a fish or nut, so Grimmjow's body must be further improved upon.

Grimmjow preferred fighting with his bare hands, but he also had a fascination with blades (perhaps a leftover from his wild, urban childhood). He could spend hours in a weapons' shop at the towns they passed through, or spend days making his own. His first few attempts were clumsy and laughably malformed, but after Shirosaki taught him how to mold metal with his claws, he improved quickly. He was rarely without a blade of some sort on his person from that point onward.

He also had a vehement aversion to shirts that closed over his chest for the longest time, probably another remnant from his younger years. It wasn't until Shirosaki led him to the frigid mountains that Grimmjow eventually conceded to covering up. He'd wiped his eyes furiously at the summit and refused to admit he'd cried at seeing the world laid out before his feet.

Shirosaki learned a great many things about Grimmjow over the quickly passing years, and had yet to grow bored.

* * *

 Shirosaki's metal arm is dotted with two of his real fingers, a piece of his forearm near the wrist, an elbow joint, and a chunk of his upper bicep that connected smoothly to his shoulder. His prosthetic leg has four toes excluding the biggest, most of his shin, and a sliver of thigh.

Recovering his missing pieces is going much faster than before, in a relatively short period of time. Their enemies' resources, numbers, and hiding places are dwindling swiftly. Grimmjow's pleased; except for how wary he still is over the lack of significant resistance.

Where is the weapon that felled Shirosaki? Why is it kept in reserve? What benefit does the organization achieve by continuing to waste lives by the hundreds, rather than send out the one or few that had proven victorious over Shirosaki once already? The unanswered questions gnaw at Grimmjow relentlessly.

"Nah." Shirosaki denies when Grimmjow demands if he's not worried as well. "I have my theories. Just waiting to see 'em proved right."

Of course he does. Grimmjow huffs sharply through his nose.

"And you didn't think to share?"

"You never asked." Shirosaki cheekily retorts, and then infuriatingly waits expectantly.

Just for that, Grimmjow gets up and walks out of the room.

* * *

 "C'mere." Shirosaki called, and reached out before Grimmjow even turned towards him obediently.

He caught Grimmjow's thick jawline between his palms and looked into his blue eyes directly, watching as Grimmjow's pupils dilated with interest as he received Shirosaki's power. It's just a little boost, to provide a small edge in their upcoming spar, and it's nothing Shirosaki hadn't done countless times over. This time, however, Grimmjow broke pattern as he shivered and leaned down as if drunk.

Shirosaki blinked as he's kissed, dry and chaste. His transfer of power broke off with the interruption of eye contact, and Grimmjow inhaled slowly as he felt the difference. It took an extra second, then Grimmjow stiffened with realization and yanked his head out of Shirosaki's grip.

Shirosaki dumbly left his hands hung in midair for a moment as he understood what just happened. He slowly dropped his hands and watched Grimmjow hunch his shoulders, his ears bright red. Shirosaki tilted his head at the view, habitually charmed by the appearance of Grimmjow's embarrassment.

"What was that?"

"Nothing." Grimmjow quickly snapped, his voice a snarl. "Forget about it."

"Hm, no." Shirosaki decided, becoming more amused by the moment. "It was something."

Grimmjow spun about, his whole face deliciously pink. "It was a fucking accident, okay?! Leave it."

"An accident?" Shirosaki parroted with a growing grin.

"Fuck you, just-" Grimmjow sharply turned away again and mumbled the rest. "Fuck off."

"Aw, Grimm, it's okay." Shirosaki had mercy and folded himself up against Grimmjow's back, his arms wrapped firmly around the man's waist.

Grimmjow held himself stiff within his grasp. "Get off."

"Nah." Shirosaki denied. "You wanna do it again?"

"What?" Grimmjow jerked and tried to peer over his shoulder, but Shirosaki's choice of position disallowed it.

"You wanna do it again?" Shirosaki generously repeated. "Humans do that when they wanna show affection, right?"

"Fuck you, don't make fun of me, Shiro." Grimmjow growled, still overly tense.

"Oh c'mon, I'm not. Serious question, Grimm." Shirosaki assured. "Do you wanna kiss me again?"

Grimmjow took a moment to stew in silence, probably trying to tell if Shirosaki was being cruel. He wasn't.

It's really not so weird to accept Grimmjow's affection. No matter how Shirosaki changed him, at his core, Grimmjow was still fundamentally human. Shirosaki had learned from millenia of observations that even the cruelest, most psychopathic humans usually cared about something or someone. The normal ones never seemed to stop trying to partner up and procreate. Shirosaki had been in Grimmjow's life for much longer than he'd been out of it. It made perfect sense that he'd be the recipient of such emotion from Grimmjow, and truthfully, Shirosaki wasn't opposed in the slightest. After all, Grimmjow was supposed to be his equal. Shirosaki could indulge in a little human weirdness to keep him close and content.

Grimmjow finally reached some kind of internal decision, and hung his head a little in rejuvenated embarrassment. He mumbled his answer unintelligibly, but Shirosaki didn't force him to repeat himself, not wanting to drive the man into any worse moods.

"Okay." He just agreed, and rested his cheek against Grimmjow's shoulder blade. "You can. Whenever you want."

Grimmjow's fingers were calloused and warm as they came up to clutch and tangle with Shirosaki's over his abdomen. He said nothing else, but he clung more than enough.

* * *

 Grimmjow carefully strokes a claw over the edge of his blade like a whetstone, mindful to keep his wrists steady and the movement smooth. By his side, Shirosaki’s breathing lulls deep and even, a pattern to which Grimmjow times his strokes. He’s sleeping, or the closest thing Shirosaki can get to such a human necessity. It’s a lazy indulgence he doesn’t bother with often, unless there’s nothing to do but waste time.

Waiting for his divination to scry the location of his next missing piece is one such occasion. The wait time has been getting longer with every subsequent find, as the defenses surrounding the body parts mount. Shirosaki’s spells are inherently a tier above anything and everything a human can ward against, so a waiting game is what it boils down to.

The carved crystals traipse slowly over a world map spread out on the floor, some on two sharp leg points and others crawling with several, occasionally drawing Grimmjow’s eye reflexively when one catches the light. They’re animated little things, unrecognizable in shape to most people, save Grimmjow and perhaps a very rapidly dwindling pool of people. Even knowing what he does, Grimmjow still has a hard time picturing what a full sized being of nine limbs would look like in flesh and bone.

Once the group has collectively decided on a definitive area, Shirosaki will place them next on another map of greater, closer detail. After they’ve determined the exact location from there, all it takes is search, destroy, and recover. They’ve begun to circle more as Grimmjow idly watches, so it shouldn’t be much longer now.

He lifts his blade to better catch the light and appraises the edge. His reflection glowers back, dissatisfied, but not with his work. Grimmjow sheathes the blade and drops it off the side of the bed without a care for the thud it makes upon landing.

Shirosaki cracks open a single eye at the noise, lazily determining the source and checking on his crystals, and then closes the lid once more.

Grimmjow sighs sharply through his nose, sliding down off the pillows to press his front along Shirosaki’s back instead. The metal of Shirosaki’s incomplete leg is thankfully already warmed, but the metal of his arm is cooler in the open air when Grimmjow traces the mottled imperfections in a bored fashion.

“I know, Grimm.” Shirosaki murmurs. “We’ll be done soon.”

“Soon like this year, or soon like in ten?” Grimmjow mutters, nosing Shirosaki’s hair out of the way so he can put his mouth on the soft skin behind the ear.

Shirosaki hums contemplatively. “Maybe one? Probably.”

Grimmjow grunts in satisfaction, and worries his found spot with his teeth. He nearly bites hard enough to break skin when a sound he’s never heard before starts up. It’s shrill, reedy, and positively eerie as Grimmjow bolts straight upright to figure out what’s making it.

“Huh, haven’t heard ‘em make that noise before.” Shirosaki notes curiously as he props himself up on his elbows to better see one of his crystals trumpeting at a spot on the map, entirely separate and alone from its siblings.

“What the fuck’s it doing then?” Grimmjow eyes the thing suspiciously as Shirosaki slides out of bed for a closer look.

Shirosaki plucks up the little wailing crystal, inspecting it for fault as the little legs thrash in midair. Seemingly finding nothing unusual, he replaces it on the map and watches how it scampers back to the same spot and turns the siren back on.

“Found something it thinks I should see, evidently.” Shirosaki answers amusedly, not at all bothered by the slight deviation to his spell.

Grimmjow eyes the deviant crystal suspiciously, but favors the rest with his attention when they all settle together and chime harmoniously. Now there’s a signal he recognizes.

“Which first?”

Shirosaki checks both areas signaled on the map and pulls out the battered atlas they’ve been toting since they recovered his second finger. He flips to a page and plucks up the errant crystal first, probably to shut it up sooner and wordlessly answering Grimmjow’s question.

Grimmjow sits up fully and swings his legs off the bed, resting his elbows on his knees. He watches the gangly bit of crystal scramble quickly across the map, moving faster than he’s ever seen the things go before. Within moments, it’s spouting off that awful sound again.

“Curious.” Shirosaki notes, swiping the crystal off the paper and onto the carpet where it twitches one last time and then falls inanimate. “Let’s recover what my other little gems have found first, then take a peek at what else was discovered, shall we?”

Grimmjow smirks silently, since his agreement is understood.

* * *

 Grimmjow’s fits of affection were utterly random as far as Shirosaki could tell. He could probably discern a pattern if he cared enough to do so, but Shirosaki generally didn’t believe such an endeavor worth his time. It was more entertaining to keep the attention spontaneous, much like how a fight wasn’t fun if he knew where every blow was going to land.

Shirosaki preferred biting over kissing, even if the marks faded quite quickly from them both. Healing just meant more skin to blemish anew, and it became of a personal goal of Shirosaki’s to keep Grimmjow wearing some mark or another of his for as long as possible.

Sex was a messy, ridiculous endeavor that had Shirosaki stifling laughter throughout. It was pleasurable enough he supposed, if a bit repetitive and sloppy. Grimmjow was the only one to ever initiate sex, since Shirosaki could hardly tell when his human wanted such a thing, but he didn’t make an excessive habit of the act. Grimmjow appeared more than satisfied with an orgasm maybe once every two weeks, probably because most of his satisfaction already came from their routine spars.

Despite this uptick in physical contact, Grimmjow also started leaving on his own for longer periods of time. Shirosaki wasn’t averse to the change, of course. It was an old throwback to Grimmjow as a brat, where they’d go days without seeing one another. If Grimmjow was mature enough to want sex, then he was also susceptible to other desires such as exploring independently.

Shirosaki missed their frequent spars a little, but he still didn’t need or want an obedient pet that never left his side. Grimmjow could come and go as he pleased, and the shared blood in their veins would ensure that they’d find their way back together again inevitably.

Grimmjow was just pushing the limits of what else he could reach, after he’d obtained as much as he wanted from Shirosaki personally. He could test his skill against ordinary humans, as well as those with magic, to determine how much he’s grown. Technically, Shirosaki remembered that Grimmjow was still quite young for his kind.

As for himself, Shirosaki spent his free time observing the increase in magic as well. He’d given up on concealing the wells and stifling the ability in mankind ages ago, and it was finally making a significant reappearance. Perhaps a well had been uncovered, but Shirosaki couldn’t care less. Honestly, the only difference it made was that Grimmjow had more targets to test himself against.

So Shirosaki ignored the gnats, set his feet on where to go next, and waited for Grimmjow to return to him.

* * *

 Metals drip off Shirosaki’s wrist when he replaces the bulk of his hand, reattaching fingers one by one with the spit of fire and ink.

Standing to the side a bit, Grimmjow flicks a strip of bloody tissue off the toe of his boot as he waits to hand over a chunk of pale flesh that’s probably a part of Shirosaki’s bicep.

This facility has been one of the largest so far, so they’d split up at the start to efficiently cover more ground. Lo and behold, it’d also contained more than one piece of Shirosaki. It was more poor planning on their enemies’ part.

Shirosaki wiggles his fingers and flexes his hand, testing how it responds and seemingly satisfied with the result as he holds it out. Grimmjow places the next piece in his newly returned palm, and just as he’d guessed, Shirosaki fits the slice just above his elbow.

“Two, four, six…” Shirosaki mumbles as he counts, idly tapping at every piece of metal that he still possesses while he does. “Seven… nine. Nine more, maybe?”

Grimmjow lifts a brow at the number, pleasantly surprised at how low it is.

“Unless they’ve sliced me up even more, that is.” Shirosaki adds with a displeased twist of his mouth.

Grimmjow mirrors the expression more vigorously.

“Well, let’s go check out that other blip, huh?” Shirosaki chirps, seizing Grimmjow’s hand with the one of his own that’s been freshly, wholly remade.

* * *

 Grimmjow hadn’t been around for a while longer than usual. Shirosaki wasn’t particularly worried or concerned per say, but he was growing increasingly restless. What was the point of raising and crafting an equal if he wasn’t around when Shirosaki wanted him?

Annoyed by the absence, Shirosaki decided to search Grimmjow out. Fuck waiting around for Grimmjow to eventually meander back. Shirosaki wanted him now, so he’d get him. Whatever kept Grimmjow away for so long could wait until Shirosaki was satisfied first.

It was pitifully easy to track Grimmjow. They shared blood, after all. All Shirosaki had to do was draw up a bead of blood on his palm and follow where it led him. What he found boiled the liquid to nothing within an instant, fury taking over conscious command.

Shirosaki viciously backhanded the first human’s head clean off, then ripped off another’s jaw and throat when he swung back across his front. By then, he’d strode past the pentagon they’d drawn around Grimmjow, and in a single blast from his palm, incinerated the rest.

He didn’t care how or why these humans captured Grimmjow. Shirosaki only cared that they had dared touch what belonged to him.

Shirosaki snarled as he crushed an obsidian stone underfoot, that point of the pentagon shattering as the substitute obelisk broke. In a ripple effect, magic stormed along the salt white lines and obliterated the rest in quick succession- pop, pop, pop- and snuffed the spell out.

Released from the binding, Grimmjow slumped over. Shirosaki caught him across the chest before he could eat dirt and instead pulled his boy close. Grimmjow’s lids fluttered feverishly, half his face stripped and bloody. Shirosaki seethed and bared his teeth at nothing, wishing he had more to destroy to vent his frustrations.

He settled for lowering himself to the ground, making certain that Grimmjow laid comfortably in the process. His blue head of hair, hanging limp and tattered, rested in Shirosaki’s lap. Grimmjow’s regeneration wasn’t working. What had those fuckers done to him?

Shirosaki leaned over, carefully pulling Grimmjow’s eyelids open with his thumbs. One eye was clouded over with milky whiteness and the other had a torn pupil that bled into the iris, rendering Grimmjow effectively blind. Shirosaki ground his teeth in order to resist the urge to scream, unwilling to risk worsening Grimmjow’s state with his piercing cry. He couldn’t fucking transfer power with Grimmjow’s eyes ruined.

He harshly bit into his wrist and held the dripping wound over Grimmjow’s slack mouth, watching the black ichor steadily slide in and down. Grimmjow coughed and choked as enough reached his throat, but Shirosaki held him still and watched impatiently for his cure to take effect. Instinct took over, and Grimmjow swallowed convulsively to clear his airway, and he jolted as if electrocuted. This time, Shirosaki didn’t stop him as Grimmjow rolled off his lap.

The man vomited violently, spewing and spitting a substance that shimmered and sparkled, translucent and disgustingly white. Shirosaki supported Grimmjow under the chest to keep him from falling face first into the holy magic residue, unconsciously stroking his back with a free hand to encourage him to get it all out.

The more Grimmjow expelled, the swifter his wounds started to stitch themselves closed. Shirosaki curled his lip as he watched scars form instead of healing flawlessly, resolved to smooth those over as soon as Grimmjow’s health was secure.

“S-Shiro?” Grimmjow rasped, feebly wiping at his slick mouth with a wrist.

“I’m here.” Shirosaki confirmed, pulling Grimmjow back into his lap and away from the pool of magical vomit.

“I can’t see.”

“I know.” Shirosaki said, leading his wrist back to Grimmjow’s mouth. “Drink.”

Grimmjow latched on blindly and sucked greedily, inhaling sharply through his nose between thick bobs of his throat. Shirosaki stroked his hair and plotted a merciless revenge on any who’d had a hand in this event.

He should’ve kept magic stomped out.

* * *

 “Oh.” Shirosaki blinks down at the frozen, mutilated remains of something utterly destroyed beyond all recognition. “That explains so much actually.”

Grimmjow glances down at the mess critically. “What is it?”

Shirosaki hums contemplatively for a moment, lining his palms to the mortuary slab and leaning his weight onto them. He crosses a foot over the back of the other, and tilts his head as if trying to see something distinct about the remains.

“I think it’s Mephala actually. I guess you could call her my sister, once upon a time.”

Grimmjow digests this reply, staring down at the mutilated corpse (what’s left of it) with new contemplation. This is, or rather was, another of Shirosaki’s kind?

“Alright. Why she is here, and why does that make sense to you?”

Shirosaki shrugs. “I assume somebody dug her up and experimented. At least one succeeded.” He casts Grimmjow a meaningful look, who stiffens as he catches the implication.

“What the fuck? From a corpse this old?”

“Well, we may die, but we don’t exactly decay that well.” Shirosaki scratches his cheek, clearly having not thought about this possibility ever occurring when he went on his spree of exterminating his own kind eons ago.

“I assume they were trying to make something like _you_ , but obviously, there was no blood left to give.” He continues thoughtfully. “They had to get creative.”

Grimmjow curls his lip in disgust at the thought of being force fed blackened, decayed tissue of any kind.

“Poor dear.” Shirosaki comments softly, _almost_ appearing regretful. “I always liked Mephala best, before her plots bored me.”

Grimmjow rolls his eyes at the odd bit of nostalgia. “So what do we do with her?”

“We destroy her, of course.” Shirosaki answers easily, setting his palm over Mephala’s remains and incinerating her in a blast so heated that it’s white instead of the usual red.

Grimmjow squints against the light and fans away the smoke, revealing Shirosaki at ground zero of the blast in a few swipes.

Shirosaki looks over at him, deceptively calm for how fiercely his eyes burn and boil gold.

“We’ve more things to find, Grimm.”

* * *

 Grimmjow hated discussing when, and how he’d been captured, ashamed of the weakness it’d shown in him. Every concession of information Shirosaki pried from him was like scraping out bone marrow, and Shirosaki would have to make up for bruising Grimmjow’s pride later, once he’d finish crushing those that’d dared touch his boy.

Shirosaki used the magic residue Grimmjow expelled to track the rest of his tormentors, and thoroughly enjoyed decimating the fools. He offered a few to Grimmjow, but the man had been weirdly lackluster in the task, doling out executions rather than lengthy punishments.

It took barely a week until Shirosaki could find no others he could hold responsible. By then, he’d admittedly lost interest, more interested in Grimmjow’s odd behavior. His boy had kept unusually quiet since the recovery, and hadn’t once plied Shirosaki with affection. This was evidently more than just a battered pride at work.

“What is it?” He asked Grimmjow bluntly, not nearly entertained enough to bother with teasing or testing to solve the riddle on his own. “Why’re you upset with me?”

Grimmjow snorted nastily. “I was tortured for a week, and you think my problem is you?”

“I’ve smacked you around worse in an ordinary spar.” Shirosaki countered, narrowing his eyes at the spike in attitude. “Don’t lie to my face again, Grimm.”

“Fine. You wanna know?” Grimmjow snapped his teeth aggressively, fur creeping up his hands and bristling stiffly. “I don’t wanna be just some pet for you to play with when you get bored! A week, Shiro! And where were you?!”

Shirosaki restrained his impulse to slap Grimmjow into the dirt for his audacity, choosing to instead address the confession seriously and carefully.

“You’re not a pet. You’ve never been. When have I ever coddled you like one?” Shirosaki demanded quietly. “Have I not made it obvious that I want you as my equal?”

Grimmjow’s eyes briefly widened, then narrowed once more. He was still suspicious, but appeared willing to hear Shirosaki out.

“You’ve been gone for longer before.” Shirosaki pointed out. “I didn’t know you were in danger. I wouldn’t leave you to that knowingly. Here, come to me.”

“Why?” Grimmjow questioned, perhaps for the very first time.

“I’ll make it so that I can feel whenever you’re harmed.” Shirosaki answered, and now Grimmjow reeled in blatant surprise. “No one’ll ever hurt you like that again, Grimm.”

“But…” Grimmjow hesitated, thrown by the startlingly empathetic offer. “What about when we spar?”

“So we’ll spar less.” Shirosaki shrugged. “It matters more that you trust me, and feel safe.”

Grimmjow’s expression contorted strangely, rifling through various emotions before settling on something that was unbearably vulnerable. He shuffled forwards and, after one last moment of hesitation, put his face in Shirosaki’s hands.

Shirosaki had only ever heard of this between his siblings ages past, but surely the practice was just as simple as the theory. He looked deep into Grimmjow’s soul through his eyes, and instead of giving, he took. Just a little, but it landed like an anchor in his chest, the chain rattling around his ribs and sinking the crown into his heart. It hurt, surprisingly fiercely so, but Shirosaki both bore it and embraced it.

Grimmjow’s mouth dropped open, shocked as Shirosaki pulled his hands away and tried to get used to breathing around the new weight. He had no idea how it felt to Grimmjow, but Shirosaki knew it’d be some time before he grew accustomed to always feeling Grimmjow so intimately.

“Shiro…”

“You’re mine, Grimmjow.” Shirosaki informed his boy, laying a palm flat over Grimmjow’s heart that pumped his very own blood. “Just as I am yours. You understand?”

Grimmjow surged into him, pulling Shirosaki off his feet with the man’s greater height. Shirosaki allowed it and returned the embrace, just a bit less fervently.

“I understand.” Grimmjow replied, wobbly voice muffled into Shirosaki’s shoulder.

Shirosaki twirled a lock of blue hair around his index finger. “Good.”

* * *

 There’s too many corpses present to account for just Shirosaki and Grimmjow on yet another retrieval hunt for a missing piece. There are the majority, torn to shreds from the outside, which is their work. The rest, however, seemed to have fallen apart from the inside out, well before they arrived.

Shirosaki flings the last of the metal off his arm, spattering the wall with even more abuse, and purrs as his flesh connects with a hiss of heat. He’s so close to being whole again, and Grimmjow takes a moment away from his inspection of a corpse melting from the eyes in order to fully appreciate the sight of his lover’s fully fleshed out arm.

After discovering the laboratory housing Mephala, Grimmjow suspects this place had also conceived experiments attempting crude divinity. Shirosaki’s divinations hadn’t landed another of his siblings here, just the last missing chunk of his arm. It boils Grimmjow’s blood just thinking that those people had tried tampering subjects using Shirosaki’s body part.

“Probably.” Shirosaki agrees with a wrinkle to his nose when Grimmjow raises the theory to him. “Gross. At least nothing took.”

“Why not? Seems like it’d work better than using the dead.” Grimmjow questions, honestly confused and rightfully concerned about their enemies raising a legitimate threat again. “Even separated from you, all your pieces are still alive.”

“Yes, but that’s the difference. I’m alive.” Shirosaki says smoothly with a smug smirk. “Using the dead, they could manipulate as they pleased. My blood doesn’t follow any will but my own, and yours.”

Grimmjow doesn’t attempt to follow Shirosaki’s thread of inherent logic. He’s always made a habit of just accepting what Shirosaki treats as fact. He gets fewer headaches that way.

Shirosaki twists to look down the back of his leg, counting again. “Three left now? I’m so ready to get rid of this metal.”

Grimmjow wordlessly agrees, because it’s a real bitch to be woken up at an ungodly hour by the bite of cold metal against his bare leg. He’s been wearing pants to bed for months.

* * *

 Shirosaki no longer found Grimmjow’s bouts of affection so bizarre. The change was doubtlessly influenced by the bit of human soul anchored permanently within him now, affecting him in all sorts of bewildering ways. Primarily, the urge to return affection as more than just a habit of indulgence.

He’d always enjoyed touching Grimmjow in practically every capacity, but before, he’d always had a reason to do so beforehand. Now, Shirosaki found himself reaching out at random and scarcely without thought. He saw no reason to deny the urges, really. Grimmjow was his, and Shirosaki would touch as he pleased.

Grimmjow thrived under the attention. He left less, and returned sooner. He’d seemed to finally find his footing, and stood tall and shameless by Shirosaki’s side, exactly where he was wanted.

Shirosaki paid more attention to both himself, and the world adapting around them.

More and more metal was steadily scraped from the earth and stretched greedily for the sky. Humans learned to more efficiently harness electricity even without magic, and their tools either started condensing in size or expanding massively. Advancements in technology trampled magic underfoot, squashing a superior talent into an outdated commodity. There were few who still openly practiced magic, and they duly suffered mockery.

Shirosaki observed it all, resolute to never be taken unaware a second time, lest Grimmjow suffer again for his negligence.

* * *

 “If they had more of these, why didn’t they make an army of freaks to mow the world over?” Grimmjow wonders as Shirosaki melts another god, a bit less metal in his leg.

“Who knows? Maybe they tried, and failed. I know I did a whole helluva lot before I figured out what humans could take.” Shirosaki murmurs as his deceased sibling steadily shrinks from existence.

“Humans are so fragile and unpredictable. Some can take a lot more others, and I never figured out what makes the difference. Maybe they did make a lot, but the beasts couldn’t be controlled, which is worse than useless. Plenty go mad at the first taste of power.”

Grimmjow rests his cheek against his knuckles as he listens, unbothered by the reminder of the extent Shirosaki went to in order to prepare him for receiving power and ichor.

“Maybe it goes back to the difference of being alive or dead. I could always direct what I wanted during trial and error. They just had the latter, with a very basic idea of what they hoped would happen. There’s bound to be more failure that way.”

“You ever think about making someone else?”

Grimmjow doesn’t know what possesses him to suddenly ask such a thing. He quit being insecure centuries ago, but the question slips out regardless.

Shirosaki lifts his head and looks over, expression scrunched in genuine consternation. “Why would I? I have you.”

The reaction is pretty much all Grimmjow could’ve hoped for, as silly and embarrassed as he feels after receiving it. Honestly, after all this time, and he still gets ridiculously giddy when Shirosaki lays out his devotion like that. It’s dumb and childish, and yet Grimmjow tucks the memory away nonetheless.

Giving him one last dubious look, Shirosaki obliviously returns to disintegrating a fellow god so it won’t be used against him ever again.

* * *

 The water was cool and clear as Shirosaki trailed his fingers through it, arm dangling over the side of the boat. Behind him, Grimmjow’s strokes with the paddle were smooth and strong. Far in front, humans skittered along wires and ropes, weaving massive steel beams into what would eventually become a great tower of the city.

The papers proudly heralded that it would be the tallest structure in the world upon completion. Shirosaki bet another structure would surpass it in a decade, at least. He thought back to the last time he’d felt driven to tear down human arrogance, and felt no strong inclination to do so again. Not currently anyways.

It hadn’t be so long ago since he’d taken Grimmjow’s soul for his own, a few years maybe. The strength of his affection had yet to cease burgeoning, and Shirosaki wondered if it ever would. He’d mostly grown accustomed to the feeling, since it’s basically a facet of the possessiveness he’d always had anyways.

A song warbled on the wind, lolling vowels and liquid syllables that Shirosaki found not as grating as so many human languages. He glanced over his shoulder and caught Grimmjow’s eye, receiving a lazy smirk in return. The anchor in his chest warmed.

Shirosaki twisted about and stepped over the bow seat, a single want in mind. Grimmjow barely managed to safely drop the paddle at his feet before Shirosaki climbed over him, sending them both into the belly of the canoe, which rocked dangerously but didn’t tip.

“Shiro, seriously?” Grimmjow complained, but he laughed as Shirosaki bit at his mouth and twisted fingers in his hair.

“Hush and let me kiss you.” Shirosaki murmured, and Grimmjow did just that.

* * *

 Grimmjow’s heart pounds with exhilaration.

He quit counting a while ago, but estimates that it’s been roughly fifty years since Shirosaki sent him away from danger. Youth is his benefactor, while his enemies grow decrepit and their new recruits more inexperienced with each subsequent base wiped off the map. Shirosaki’s obliterated the remains of five other gods found, and right here in front of Grimmjow, the very last piece of his missing flesh is displayed before him on a pedestal.

He reaches, and loses breath as it winks out of existence in a flare of green light. For a moment, Grimmjow is stunned, dimly registering a note card left in its place. Then, frustration takes over.

“GODDAMMIT!”

The already wrecked vault contorts further under his wrath. Grimmjow’s mindful just enough to avoid damaging the hint, but the rest is fair game to be utterly ruined.

Shirosaki is waiting at the gaping mouth of the vault when he calms enough to speak.

“It’s gone. Exchanged with that.”

His lover follows Grimmjow’s sharp point, then delicately crosses the rubble to pluck the card off the pedestal.

“The remaining locations of our mutual friends.” Shirosaki reads aloud, flipping the card to see the addresses listed meticulously on the back. “This is either a trick, or someone’s using us to do their dirty work.”

“We’re doing it?” Grimmjow demands, still ticked off by the cheeky swap pulled when he was so tauntingly close.

“Of course. None who directly oppose me shall live.” Shirosaki intones, tucking the card away carefully. “We would’ve done it regardless. If it’s not a trick, this expedites matters.”

“What’s stopping us from hunting this bastard down and taking back your last piece anyways?”

“Nothing,” Shirosaki allows. “But teleportation spells, even the lesser exchanges, are rare. Whoever cast it could evade us for a very long time. We cooperate to our own benefit?” He looks at Grimmjow expectantly for the answer.

Grimmjow snarls unhappily at the prospect of doing anything for anybody other than Shirosaki, but he answers.

“We reap the rewards.”

* * *

 “We need a place of our own.” Shirosaki decided aloud.

Grimmjow lifted his head off Shirosaki’s stomach and blinked sleepily up at him. “Where?”

Shirosaki combed fingers through his wild hair. “Somewhere secluded. Someplace just for us, where I don’t hafta see a single human for as long as we’re there.”

“Hmkay.” Grimmjow dropped his head back down, shifting to get more comfortable.

“Entsha’s forests are nice this time of year.” Shirosaki continued and lightly scratched his nails against his boy’s scalp.

“And miserably humid for the rest of it.” Grimmjow mumbled in counterpoint. “Pass.”

“Uta then. One of its islands with the deadly tides and black beaches.”

“Pass. I hate fish.”

“You're not even allergic anymore, you big baby. Then…” Shirosaki thought quietly for a moment. “Buaic Na Ndícheall.”

Grimmjow pulled his head back up, resting his chin against a lower rib. “I don’t know that. Where is it?”

Shirosaki grinned. “I’ll show you.”

* * *

 Tapping his fingernail against the last bit of metal in Shirosaki’s thigh, Grimmjow refuses to admit that he’s sulking. Shirosaki, however, doesn’t let him get away from it.

“Don’t pout, Grimm.” Shirosaki scolds lightly, but his attention is on the atlas as he confirms that the calling card’s addresses are correct.

Grimmjow huffs sharply through his nose, rolling off Shirosaki’s lap so he’s not further dwelling over the missing piece. His new pose allows him to see pretty well out the window and the sprawling cityscape beneath the penthouse. Whatever fucker owned this place wasn’t ever returning, and Shirosaki always did enjoy luxury when the opportunity presented itself.

He hears one of Shirosaki’s crystals trumpet affirmation, then the rustle of paper being turned. Grimmjow allows his eyes to close, since the view of metal and glass doesn’t appeal to him as much stone and snow. He wonders if their cottage is still intact from when he last saw it. He’d never bothered to go check.

“Shiro?”

“Hm?” Shirosaki hums distractedly.

“Did they destroy the house?”

The sound of the atlas being flipped through quiets as Shirosaki processes the unexpected question.

“Most of it.” He admits at length. “We can rebuild.”

Yet another thing to detest their enemies for ruining then. The spark of annoyance doesn’t last long, since it’s been so long ago now. It also helps that Shirosaki sets aside the atlas to curl up on top of Grimmjow’s back.

“I’m thinking we go two stories this time.” Shirosaki murmurs, tracing nonsensical lines on Grimmjow’s bare hip. “Put the bedroom and the loft upstairs, so there’s more room for the kitchen downstairs.”

“You never even cook.” Grimmjow can’t help but tease, grinning at the idea. “Why would we need a big kitchen?”

“ _You_ cook, and you deserve the best.” Shirosaki points out, and pinches his ribs in playful reproach. “You want a lounge too?”

“What’s the difference between a loft and a lounge?”

“One’ll have just you in it alone if you keep this up.”

Grimmjow snickers, unrepentant. “What about the smithy?”

“I don’t remember. They might’ve left it alone for the most part.” Shirosaki hums. “I’ll make you a better one.”

“And my smokehouse?”

“Whatever you want.” Shirosaki purrs, mouthing at the back of Grimmjow’s neck.

Grimmjow opens his eyes. “I want to kill everyone who ever thought they could touch us.”

Shirosaki’s feral grin presses familiarly into his skin. “I know where we can start.”

* * *

 Their home atop Buaic Na Ndícheall didn’t routinely see much use initially. Grimmjow had passed his human years some time ago, but his wanderlust had yet to be sated. Shirosaki couldn’t blame him. The world was massive, and tended to drastically change every decade or so. There was always something new to see.

While Grimmjow’s restlessness continued unobstructed, Shirosaki had never felt so settled.

He wouldn’t call his entrapment by the obelisks a scenario where he willingly made someplace to live. All the structures there had been manmade, either for humans to occupy themselves or to support worship in his image. Shirosaki hadn’t even slept back then. Before humans and the obelisks, where his siblings had claimed vast territories for themselves and squabbled endlessly, Shirosaki had wandered freely and without attachment to any particular place.

Sharing a home with Grimmjow, in a place intended to be permanent, was a true novelty. Shirosaki was actually attached to the place, and he felt an immense surge of satisfaction upon returning to the cottage after every lengthy period away. He was so invested, in fact, that Shirosaki meticulously built a weystone to center their home.

Fundamentally, weystones were pseudo-physical constructs that enabled him to cast massive spells with little to no preparation. Most importantly, weystones served as the tether that focused teleportation spells. Without one, traveling via magic was a long and tedious process that wasn’t worth the cast time or hassle. With a weystone, Shirosaki could open a portal to anywhere in the world, as well as the opposite, with little more than a gesture.

Now that they had one, Grimmjow could travel as far as he pleased, and Shirosaki could still return home whenever he liked. He tried to teach Grimmjow how to use the spell by himself, but spellcasting had never been Grimmjow’s strong suit, and he was usually content leaving the task to Shirosaki alone. It worked out well enough, since the teleportation required more raw energy than Shirosaki was comfortable with Grimmjow regularly exerting anyways.

Perhaps in another few centuries, Grimmjow would have enough latent power to cast such strong spells without exhausting himself. Until then, Shirosaki was happy to chauffeur his boy around wherever he wished to visit.

* * *

 At the final listed address, after the last body litters the four walls, Shirosaki tilts his head back in a movement too quick to be an ordinary gesture.

“What?”

“A very… old feeling.” Shirosaki answers distractedly, still staring up at the ceiling as if he can see straight through it to the source.

Grimmjow waits, but Shirosaki doesn’t elaborate. He just takes Grimmjow’s hand and leads him back to the surface.

On the deserted road, green clothing whipping around in the desert wind, a blond man waits with a striped hat pressed into his chest. He bows deeply upon sighting them, and summons a floating magic rune with his free hand. It pulses white, then red, then black, then white again, and he holds it out as if in offering.

Grimmjow narrows his eyes suspiciously, but Shirosaki laughs in surprised delight.

“Well I’ll be damned! You're a long way from home, aren't you?”

“Quite.” The stranger replies cheerily, dismissing the rune and straightening upright while replacing the hat atop his head. “Well worth the travel, I’d say.”

“This was your doing then.” Shirosaki concludes amusedly. “You have my piece?”

“Of course. I return it in perfect condition.” The stranger reaches into a billowy pocket and removes a glass case containing the last strip of Shirosaki’s leg.

“Grimm, will you get it for me?” Shirosaki asks, and although confused, Grimmjow does as he’s requested.

He strides forward and snatches the case away possessively, but the stranger appears unaffected by his snarl and merely continues to smile. Grimmjow returns to Shirosaki’s side and offers the glass to his lover, but Shirosaki refuses it.

“Replace it, Grimm.” Shirosaki murmurs, just quiet enough to be private. “You started this. Now finish it.”

The exhilaration in the vault from over a month ago returns, and Grimmjow carefully cracks the case open. He delicately takes the flayed piece of muscle and skin between his fingers and kneels in the red dirt before his lover.

Metal melts away in invitation, and Grimmjow fits the last piece where it belongs. He keeps his hand pressed to Shirosaki’s thigh throughout the process of rejoining, unbothered by the heat and pricks of sharpened ichor. He only looks up when Shirosaki cups his face, and stands when he’s pulled.

Shirosaki kisses him fiercely, practically thrumming with rejuvenated power as he’s made whole again for the first time in half a century. Grimmjow’s almost drunk on the feeling, the very air sucked out of his lungs as he can _feel_ the piece of his own soul within Shirosaki tremble at the surge.

“Finally.” Shirosaki breathes as he parts their mouths, allowing Grimmjow to gasp and cling to him. “Now, for introductions.”

Grimmjow almost forgot their audience, and he turns to mistrustfully eye the spectator.

The stranger’s pulled a fan from somewhere and shields his face with it, presumably to give them privacy. At the sound of Shirosaki’s comment, however, he snaps it shut and returns it to a sleeve.

“Grimm, meet a descendant of my worshippers.” Shirosaki declares with clear amusement.

The blond sweeps into another bow. “Urahara Kisuke, ever at your service.”

* * *

 There was an odd procession slowly struggling its way up the mountain. Shirosaki had been watching their progress for the past few days with a growing theory concerning their intentions. He was already able to tell that the whole of their large party was magically gifted, and Shirosaki supposed that it _had_ become quite obvious where he lived to people who paid attention. He was a very selfish neighbor after all, and totally unwilling to share what had thoroughly become _his_ land over the past century.

Shirosaki always could head down at any point to meet the raiding party, but two points held him in place.

The first and most important was that Shirosaki’s waiting for Grimmjow to return. Grimmjow orientated himself in the world by using Shirosaki as his true north through their shared blood and bits of soul. If Shirosaki changed his position by a few kilometers without warning, Grimmjow would doubtlessly get lost until Shirosaki returned to the cottage. It was a minor inconvenience at most, but Shirosaki never desired to hinder Grimmjow’s return to him, so he’d remain put for the time being.

The second factor was that there’s a certain kind of amusing irony in allowing the small army to struggle and suffer all the way up to him, only to soundly crush them at the peak once they’d finally arrived. Letting them exhaust themselves and waste resources well before the actual battle was a sound strategy, even if they wouldn’t provide entertaining combat regardless.

Besides, waiting had the additional bonus of Grimmjow potentially returning before the war party’s arrival. It was always more fun when Shirosaki had Grimmjow by his side when correcting human arrogance.

Additionally, the wait allowed Shirosaki more time to determine their method of attack. He liked to believe that if they knew who their target was, they must have some kind of predetermined plan in place. So far, Shirosaki placed his bet on the covered crate that significantly hindered their progress as the elevation increased, but was clearly well worth the struggle.

He wondered what sort of weapon they’d devised, and futilely hoped would work against him.

* * *

 Grimmjow deeply mistrusts this Urahara figure, worshipper or otherwise. The man knew far too much about their enemies’ placements to _not_ have been intimately involved in the upper hierarchy of the organization, and his casual use of teleportation spells proves that he’s more than merely magically adept.

These observations have no doubt been shared by Shirosaki, but his lover tugs Grimmjow along in his wake through Urahara’s portal anyways. Grimmjow didn’t miss the queasy, lurching feeling in his gut from transcending space and time in the slightest, especially considering how the last one went.

Shirosaki takes a deep breath as soon as they’re out the other side, despite the fact that they’re inside a building.

“Ah, how nostalgic.” He remarks, and flops onto a simple couch without hesitation. He pats the cushion between his legs. “C’mere, Grimm.”

Grimmjow eyes the place more suspiciously, noting how Urahara hangs his hat on a peg in the wall and starts puttering around in a kitchen. He trusts Shirosaki implicitly, especially now that his lover’s absolutely whole again, but the rest is still suspect.

A hand grabs the seat of his pants and yanks him down anyways. Unsurprisingly, Shirosaki wrangles Grimmjow into the exact position he wants and proceeds to wrap all his limbs about the man.

“Hush, you worrier.” Shirosaki talks over Grimmjow’s grumbling. “Use that brain I know you have. It’s not dangerous here.”

“Certainly not to either one of you.” Urahara assures as he puts a kettle on a rather old fashioned stove.

Grimmjow wordlessly bares his teeth, not quite soothed by how Shirosaki affectionately pets his hair and down the side of his face, then neck and back up for another pass.

“There’s bound to be some lingering personal that escaped the purge, but they’re less than harmless.” Urahara says, as if he’s continuing a conversation that never actually started. “I imagine they’ll live out the rest of their lives forever fearing retribution, and keeping their heads buried in the sand.”

“And the rest of my siblings?” Shirosaki inquires.

“You destroyed all the ones we had. The rest, I could never find.” Urahara answers, flat out admitting his actions against them.

Yet, Shirosaki remains unaffected. It’s more of a struggle for Grimmjow to keep calm, but seeing as he’s rather thoroughly pinned down, he can’t do anything about his frustration against the man who caused him so much aggravation over fifty years.

“Which one did you eat to stick around for so long?” Shirosaki asks, sounding genuinely curious. “I can barely smell it on you anymore.”

“We called it The Eye, though I’m not sure how else to describe it so that you’d know which one.” Urahara smiles secretively. “You didn’t leave much of anyone behind.”

Shirosaki laughs as if he’s just been told a joke. “Old Mora, huh? Figures. You remind me of him, though I can’t tell if that’s just you or how much you ate.”

“Thank you.” Urahara accepts the comment as a compliment. “My last injection was several years ago. The effects have long worn off. I’ll die as an ordinary human in good time.”

“And the other one?” Shirosaki asks, and Grimmjow narrows his eyes intently.

“He’s here.” Urahara answers smoothly. “Along with his wife and son. We celebrated his seventy-first birthday just a few weeks ago, actually.”

Grimmjow snarls, refusing to be shushed. “That fucker’s _here?”_

“Couldn’t you tell?” Shirosaki tilts his head to ask the question just within Grimmjow’s peripheral. “I can smell him decaying from here.”

“No, I can’t fucking _smell_ it.” Grimmjow snaps. “And you damn well know that.”

“Lucky. It reeks.” Shirosaki comments.

“Why are you so fucking calm about this?” Grimmjow finally has to demand, fed up with being patient. “I thought you wanted to kill everyone who ever touched you?!”

“We did.” Shirosaki assures, unbothered by Grimmjow’s frustration. “Kisuke saw to it, and the other one is already rotting apart as we speak. Killing him would only be merciful now.”

“Would you like to see for yourself?” Urahara unexpectedly offers. “Ichigo has always wanted to meet you both again.”

Shirosaki releases his hold so Grimmjow can decide for himself, and of course he surges to his feet immediately.

“Show me.”

* * *

 Shirosaki sat on their porch and waited for the procession to approach him, not unlike a king receiving subjects. He rolled a collection of beads between his fingers and watched four humans approach him at the head of their entourage.

The group was weak with the long journey, the frigid cold of the peak, and of sore lack of breath from the elevation. Even within Shirosaki’s spell that kept the cottage temperate and comfortable, they still struggled to stand and breathe. It was, quite frankly, a pathetic sight.

“Yes?” Shirosaki prompted, quietly amused. “Is there something you wanted?”

“Beast.” One heavily covered human raked down their protective coverings to spit disgustedly at the ground.

Shirosaki set a bead on the tip of his thumb, and sent it through the offender’s skull with a mere flick of his finger. As the body slumped lifelessly to the ground and their party members scattered away from what seemed like a spontaneous explosion, Shirosaki disapprovingly clucked his tongue.

“You came to my home just to insult me? What poor manners.”

“Not at all.” Another human stepped up to the threshold of death. “We came to do much worse, I assure you, defiler.”

“Defiler?” Shirosaki raised his brows. “That’s a new one. What, pray tell, have I defiled?”

“God’s good earth will no longer house your treachery, demon.”

Shirosaki barked a laugh. “I _am_ your god, fools.”

“Blasphemer!” A woman shrieked, and cut her arm behind herself at the straggling line of pitiful soldiers. “Release it!”

Shirosaki sighed and stood from his chair as lackeys scrambled to uncover the cart they’d so laboriously dragged all the way up here. The apparent leaders back away quickly, frightened despite their big words, as it’d always been. Whatever weapon they’d crafted to contest him won’t ever change their own cowardice.

However, Shirosaki could honestly say that he never would’ve predicated the abomination that crawled out of the casket.

* * *

 Ichigo, as Urahara calls him, is little more than a withered, disfigured old man. His brown eyes are dull with age, and the once vibrant orange hair that Grimmjow had glimpsed so long ago, is now gray and lifeless. His limbs clearly aren’t his own, warped and swaddled in a wheelchair, and now that he’s this close, Grimmjow can finally understand Shirosaki’s complaints.

No matter how carefully wrapped and smothered in fragrant salves, the stench of rot is unmistakable.

“You’re more wretched than I remember.” Shirosaki informs his old opponent, muffled for how he blatantly covers his mouth and nose to ward away the smell.

Ichigo offers a wan, weary smile. “And you haven’t changed in the slightest, of course. Though, you are later than I expected. I thought I’d die before you finally came around.”

“Why would I rush?” Shirosaki counters, and tugs pointedly on Grimmjow’s shirt. “I have this one.”

Grimmjow habitually sneers when Ichigo regards him next, but the majority of his aggression has ebbed. Shirosaki’s right. This slow, torturous decay is enough punishment. Anything else really would be mercy.

“I never learned your name. It’s not recorded anywhere, not like Shirosaki’s, and Urahara wouldn’t tell me.” Ichigo offers, shooting a mild glare over in Urahara’s direction.

“Why should I tell you?” Grimmjow mutters, crossing his arms unhappily.

This whole ordeal makes him uncomfortable. Ichigo is far too close to what Grimmjow could’ve eventually become, if he hadn’t found Shirosaki when he did. He appreciates neither the view nor the reminder.

Ichigo shrugs, and something in his shoulders quietly cracks. If it pains him, he doesn’t indicate it. He’s probably too used to perpetual agony to be bothered any by just a little fracture.

“Everyone- even monsters and gods- have someone they care about. I saw it then, and I see it now. I guess I just want a name to go with the story.”

Grimmjow grunts, unconvinced. “You first.”

“My name? Or the ones I care about?” Ichigo astutely inquires.

Grimmjow has hated him on principle for a very long time, but he can tell that even if their history wasn’t the case, they still wouldn’t have ever gotten along.

“Nevermind, fuck you. I don’t care.” He decides, dismissively turning away.

“Fair enough.” Ichigo calls, and then addresses Shirosaki again quietly as Grimmjow stalks away. “I wouldn’t say it’s good to see you again, but thanks anyways.”

Shirosaki hums pleasantly.

* * *

 It’s a detestable creature they’d made. _Wrong_ screamed from the abomination in every way, from its twisted limbs to the sickening, throbbing magic. Shirosaki could tell it’d started as a human, but what it became was the furthest from holy. He didn’t know how these people could believe themselves better, when this was their masterpiece.

It attacked blindly, enraged with pain and boosted with holy magic that only worsened its misery as the spells boiled its very own body. The agony only drove it to move faster, as if completing its assigned task will relieve the torture.

Shirosaki almost pitied the abomination, but he was enjoying himself far too much to entertain the thought further. It was a fierce beast they’d whipped into compliance and turned loose on him, and the competition was a thrill Shirosaki hadn’t entertained in some time.

He’d never regret claiming Grimmjow completely, but he did miss the ache of an unrestrained fight. This was more than satisfactory so far.

Willing to indulge, Shirosaki allowed the spellcasters to continue boosting their slavering beast. He adorned bits of his true form to heighten the excitement, and surprisingly, the abomination matched him by violently sprouting grotesque armor. When he washed away the hapless spectators in a wash of red light, the abomination countered with a wave of black that clipped the house.

That annoyed Shirosaki, and he kicked the orange maned beast halfway into the ground as retribution. While it dug itself back out, Shirosaki quickly appraised the damage. It wasn’t much, but it would have to be repaired unless they wanted the roof to leak next time it rained. Looking back at his home had the additional, unintentional side effect of reminding Shirosaki of his boy.

Immediately, Shirosaki’s priorities shifted.

Grimmjow had surely heard the commotion by now. He was supposed to probably return today, and he definitely would after hearing the noise of battle. How close was he? Shirosaki couldn’t sense him as clearly with the abomination clogging up his senses with its wrongness. What if he was accidentally caught within one of their blasts, and if caught unawares, wounded?

A foreign emotion budded in Shirosaki’s chest, centered around the anchor of Grimmjow’s soul. What if-

Shirosaki hissed as his distraction was savagely taken advantage of, and the beast nearly managed to slice his hand clean off. It hung uselessly half severed, and would continue to until he could seize a moment to realign it. Sensing weakness, the abomination surged forwards and, unbidden, the foreign feeling strengthened.

Grimmjow mustn’t meet this monster. Shirosaki had sworn that his boy would never suffer again and Shirosaki can’t- this emotion, it’s distracting and he lost his footing- literally as talons gouge into his leg. With every wound, the chance that Grimmjow would suffer worse increased, and Shirosaki grew wild.

His focus was ruined, as was his gleeful bloodlust for the battle. He had to kill it. Before Grimmjow-

A flare of familiar blue energy decimated a line of spellcasters from behind, and Shirosaki reacted without thought, consumed by the frantic beat of his anchored heart. He pulled at the weystone, drew the magic into his palm, and cut open the air just as Grimmjow leapt for his side.

He caught a split second of Grimmjow’s startled expression, the way his boy’s mouth started to form Shirosaki’s nickname, and then Shirosaki sent him safely away.

Pain bit into the back of his neck, and the world rolled messily.

* * *

 “You know, we call Shirosaki the Godfather of Mankind in our records.” Urahara says conversationally as they walk to the edge of the village to wait for Shirosaki.

Grimmjow snorts automatically at the very idea.

“Not because of his mercy, certainly.” Urahara agrees in clear amusement. “But his selfishness has inadvertently aided human evolution at every turn. If he hadn’t slaughtered his siblings, humankind would be either eradicated or enslaved. Through time, whenever we reached too far, he toppled us, and showed us how else to grow.”

“You have a funny way of showing your admiration then.” Grimmjow growls. “Conspiring his demise like you did.”

“He had to know there was a real threat.” Urahara shrugs lightly and fans himself. “His negligence is our boon, undoubtedly, but your honeymoon was lasting a little long. Besides, I knew all along he couldn’t be permanently killed by any human means. After all, he has you, yes?”

“You’re still a piece of shit.” Grimmjow states, unimpressed by the man’s idea of loyalty.

“So I’ve been told.” Urahara laughs quietly. “I doubt I’ll ever see you again in my remaining lifetime, Grimmjow, so this is goodbye.”

“Good riddance.” Grimmjow scoffs, striding ahead without pause. “And you can tell that freak my name. I don’t give a fuck.”

“Ah.” Urahara acknowledges quietly as he’s left behind at the village’s edge. “I’ll be sure to pass along the message.”

Grimmjow ignores him and continues walking.

Littered across the valley are ancient ruins, plenty concealed by overgrowth. Grimmjow pauses at a few, only once he’s certain that the blond bastard can no longer see him. He’s admittedly curious about these people, at how deeply Shirosaki must’ve scarred their ancestors, that their descendants still worship Shirosaki to some extent. He can’t read a lick of the ruined walls, but a few rough carvings and shattered statues still vaguely resemble his lover’s appearance.

He’s always known this part of Shirosaki’s past, but it’s something else to actually see it with his own eyes. All those struggles of the past half century, and all of it because a worshipper believed Shirosaki needed to come back and prune the garden of weeds. Grimmjow wonders how much things would’ve been different, if Shirosaki hadn’t panicked in fear for Grimmjow’s life, if they could’ve fought together, if Urahara would’ve been satisfied with the just the roots being wiped out.

Grimmjow drops a statuette of Shirosaki carelessly. It doesn’t matter. In the face of immortality, fifty years isn’t a big deal. Grimmjow will probably be completely over it by the time this century ticks over into the next.

“There you are.” Shirosaki calls as he falls from the sky to land nearby.

“As if you ever lost me.” Grimmjow sasses, burrowing his hands into his pockets. “Done with your worshippers already?”

“They’re cute, but not all that different from ages ago.” Shirosaki waves the question away airily. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.”

“Of course.” Grimmjow mumbles, looking down as Shirosaki folds himself against his front.

Shirosaki grins up at him and links his hands in the small of Grimmjow’s back. “So we’re rebuilding the house first, right?”

Grimmjow allows himself a smile, and folds his hands over his lover’s back in reciprocation. “Yeah, let’s do that.”

* * *

 “Not so arrogant are you now, demon?” The female leader laughed cruelly.

Shirosaki could do nothing but bitterly hang from her fist and watch his body be hacked apart. That foreign, awful feeling had disappeared with Grimmjow, but another had replaced it. Shirosaki can no more name this one as he could the first, but he likes neither.

The abomination had been corralled and sealed away again, and Shirosaki suspected his fate would be similar. Ironically, their lack of preparation showed their own insecurity, having not brought anything to contain him in the event of victory. Ah, was this the taste of defeat then? It was sour. He hated it.

“Nothing left to say?” The woman continued to mock him, but Shirosaki ignored her.

He still lived. Despite his own beheading, and the active mutilation of his body, Shirosaki remained conscious and aware of it all, as if he were still attached. None of his siblings had survived in such a way, not unless they’d-

Grimmjow’s soul raged within his chest, visceral as if it wasn’t laying several feet away, bloodied and limbless. Ah, was that the difference then? As long as Grimmjow lived, so too would he? It always had been difficult to kill a few of his fellow gods, if that were really the case.

“Stop your preening, and help build the coffins, woman!” Someone barked at his tormentor. “We must depart before that other beast returns!”

“Tsk. Fine.”

Shirosaki was dropped carelessly, and his head bounced and rolled awkwardly until he settled on one cheek. He didn’t care. He’d felt worse a million times over.

It hurt more to helplessly watch soldiers set the cottage ablaze. His power spluttered uselessly, directionless in his disjointed condition. He’d need a little more time to figure out how to make it work like this, but he probably wouldn’t get it.

“Seal the head away first. We’ll reinforce the coffins at a later date. Right now, we just need to keep the demons from reuniting.”

There’s an idea, Shirosaki mused as boots approached his head and gloved hands awkwardly picked him up, as if suspecting to be bitten.

He could literally feel it, Grimmjow’s soul burning away within him. Grimmjow wouldn’t rest until he found Shirosaki again.

Shirosaki had no explanation yet for how he’d behaved the way he did, but he owed Grimmjow an apology regardless. His boy had deserved the chance to truly stand by his side as his equal before their enemies, and Shirosaki had stolen that from him. He wouldn’t allow his own ignorance to separate them again.

After all, Shirosaki thought as he was lowered into a rudimentary coffin, he’d probably have plenty of time to figure it out.

Shirosaki closed his eyes before the coffin lid stole his sight and smothered his remaining senses. He could no longer feel his body, and the only power left was his mind. The concealing magic was layered heavily overhead (ha, literally) and it stifled him into a bizarre state of drowsiness. He yawned freely, unperturbed by the sluggish movements of the coffin being transported.

He had nothing but time, content to wait until Grimmjow found him again, as he always had, and always would.

**Author's Note:**

> Translations & random tidbits from writing this fic: (the dates are in no way relevant/chronological, I just included them as an insight to my thought process)  
> \- Las Montañas Afiladas: The Sharpened Mountains, Spanish.  
> \- Shiro's song is Histoire D'un Amour by Dalida (1958).  
> \- La Tour de la Ville: The Tower City, French.  
> \- Life jackets were invented in 1854.  
> \- Flussstadt: River Town, German.  
> \- Glowsticks were invented in 1965.  
> \- The first car was invented in 1885-86.  
> \- WWI lasted from Jul 28, 1914 – Nov 11, 1918.  
> \- Jack the Ripper was active in 1888.  
> \- Grimmjow lisps as a child, bc he's missing his front teeth. Consonants like S's or X's wouldn't come out sounding right, so I tried to emulate that.  
> \- Majat E Bardha - The White Peaks, Albanian.  
> \- The Black Death peaked in Europe from 1347 to 1351.  
> \- I use various game terminology in this: ie clerics & templars (Aion) and peacekeepers (For Honor).  
> \- Mephala is the deaedric prince of murder, sex, and secrets (from the Elder Scrolls series).  
> \- The crown is an actual part of most anchors, and it symbolized perfectly with the metaphor in Shirosaki’s heart, since Grimmjow is King.  
> \- Entsha: Newfoundland, Xhosa.  
> \- Uta: Portland, Maori.  
> \- Buaic Na Ndícheall: Destiny’s Peak, Irish.  
> \- A weystone (focus) is an item used in Skyrim, in a Dawnguard questline. (Unrelated to how Shirosaki uses one in the fic, I’m just borrowing the term.)  
> \- Mora, Hermaeus Mora, is also from the Elder Scrolls games, and often depicted as a collection of eyes, and is the daedric prince of knowledge and memory, suitable for Urahara.  
> \- For a good portion of the past tense sections, keep in mind that Grimmjow goes from a child, to a teen, and is a young adult still learning both himself and Shirosaki, so if he seems a little OOC at times, that’s why. Boy never had even a chance at an ordinary life, and is emotionally stunted and confused at times. He learned how to BE mostly from Shirosaki, who obviously isn’t the best role model.  
> \- Apologies for the lame ass vague enemy organization, this fic is already a monster and I was lazy and didn't wanna do the extra research into making the enemies either the Shinigami or Quincy, pls forgive.  
> \- Sorry there's no smut, but I am godawful at it, and didn't wanna ruin my own stuff lmao.  
> \- It didn’t take long before I absolutely regretted using this format of back and forth between Grimmjow’s present and Shirosaki’s past, but by then, I’d already invested too much to rewrite, so I suffered through, and here at the end? I’m glad I stuck it out.
> 
> I’m sure this could be much better, but I really wanted to post this before I would’ve fussed over it intermittently for months later, and then whaddya know, it’s 20-fkn-20, so here it is as is.  
> Another shoutout to ShadowThorne for spawning my love of the truest OTP in my feeble little heart. I hope you, and everyone who gave this a chance and got this far, enjoyed it!!  
> Of course, feedback is always appreciated <3
> 
> (p.s. I also just about did a spittake, bc I'm just now realizing that the summary lyrics are also so appropriate to how long it took me to write this fic and put it together.)


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